


When Out at Sea Feels Nothing Like a Home

by comeswithaprice



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Attacks, Dubious Consent, Erectile Dysfunction, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bestiality joke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comeswithaprice/pseuds/comeswithaprice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Thorin the soldier, his PTSD and his charming personality walk into a bar. Or is it an escort agency?<br/>(It's totally an escort agency)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (I want something else. I’m not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it’s drenched in sunlight and it’s weightless and I know it’s not cheap)

**Author's Note:**

> And then I went and actually wrote the thing. Because Escort AUs speak to my very soul. 
> 
> Many many thanks to the usual suspects; [Jade](http://bardthebowman.tumblr.com/)'s excellent beta service for people who can't perspective good and wanna learn to do other stuff good too, [Kale](http://mahihkun.tumblr.com/) (not the vegetable) and her dick jokes/[moral support](https://31.media.tumblr.com/11025dbc374b479a93264946e3b05b93/tumblr_inline_n26s3eH1lb1qznsms.jpg), [Kyon](http://jaegerorangecat.tumblr.com/) and her g-spot, and everyone else who kept (and keeps!) cheering me on! 
> 
> Also, I don't know what it is about titles but finding an appropriate one always turns into a [collective effort](https://twitter.com/coveredindurins/status/427504820959055872). No, [seriously](https://twitter.com/coveredindurins/status/427506906480263168). Too bad I ended up picking the most boring title ever. 
> 
>  
> 
> **In this chapter:**
> 
>  
> 
> \- very brief mention of dub-con (I thought I'd reiterate this even though it's in the warnings; it's the only dub-con moment you'll read in this fic and it lasts barely a second but better safe than sorry)  
> \- rating for this chapter is technically M, overall fic rating is E (don't worry, i'm not gonna write 80k and add fade-to-black sex at the end of the very last chapter)
> 
> Last but not least, my knowledge of PTSD and anxiety-related issues comes from personal, non-war related experiences and is then filtered through Thorin's eyes. What's left - mainly the topics of war and erectile dysfunction - comes from friends and people I've met throughout the years. I genuinely hope no one finds my way of dealing with/portraying the subjects offensive and/or improper.
> 
> In any case, you're more than welcome to leave me a comment if you feel like I'm doing you a disservice or if I've upset you with my writing. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**(I want something else. I’m not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it’s drenched in sunlight and it’s weightless and I know it’s not cheap)**

There’s always been a thing, with Thorin and dates. 

The thing with dates is he doesn’t do them.

Well, he _does_ , but not really. Mostly he goes out (sometimes with people, sometimes alone), picks up someone, and then has sex with the same person for a while, until things start getting too serious. He’s been told more than once by a number of different - but equally upset people - that his m.o. doesn’t exactly constitute as dating, and yet. 

He’s never been one for candlelit dinners, stargazing, poetry reading or whatever else one’s supposed to do while on a proper date --- and this was even _before_ the war. He’s never taken kindly to people who try to encroach on his personal space, and his dating style might be unconventional, rough around the edges, but it suits him.

*

There’s another thing with Thorin, a more recent one. 

He’s fucked up - and it’s not just a hyperbole, one that people like to use to describe something or someone that’s slightly out of the ordinary, no. He’s _royally_ fucked up. 

“War will do that to you”, had been the first thing the army therapist had told him once he’d come back and everything had been so out of place he hadn’t even known where to start. It had been just about as helpful as ‘ _sucks to be you, mate_ ,’ so Thorin had decided to drop the sessions. 

“I don’t need some stranger to tell me what I already know”, had been the reasoning behind his decision, and even though everyone had questioned it - starting with Dis and ending with said therapist - Thorin had just done what he’d wanted. 

It’s not until he realizes he’s spent a month in bed, sleeping, ignoring his phone and barely eating, that he thinks maybe there was a fundamental flaw in his plan, but at the same time finds he doesn’t really care. 

*

One particularly hot August afternoon, Dis pries his apartment door open with a picklock, calls for him, voice angry as she comments on the state of Thorin’s apartment, and “Why don’t you pick up your goddamn phone,” until she finds him.

He’s curled up above the covers, shaking with tremors he hadn’t even realized had started again. Thorin’s not even sure how he got into bed in the first place, considering he was in the bathroom just a minute ago, staring at his face in the mirror. It had been just a moment, but he’d suddenly remembered the way Frerin’s eyes had stared at him, empty and cold - _dead_ , had helpfully supplied his mind - and he’d just blacked out. 

His sister stares at him from the doorway, hand on her mouth, and when Thorin sees Dwalin coming up behind her, he leans over the side of the bed and throws up on the floor.

“You look like shit,” comes Dwalin’s crisp voice, and Thorin grunts, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“I’ll go make tea,” says Dis. “You clean this up.”

“Yes sarge.”

Thorin hears the clicking of her heels disappear down the hallway, and then chances a look at Dwalin. His friend is rubbing the back of his head, considering. “You know, I’m not sure whether she meant _this_ ,” he says, gesturing at the pool of vomit now ruining the carpet, “or _this_ ,” he continues, pointing at Thorin. 

“Probably both,” he reasons.

Dwalin snorts, making for the bed and helping Thorin sit up straight. “You really look like shit, you know.”

“Well,” starts Thorin, “You know what they say.” Dwalin’s hand is a comforting, familiar weight on his back and he lets himself be steered towards the bathroom. 

“Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater?” 

Thorin snorts, “That too. But,” he adds a pause for dramatic emphasis as he struggles out of his stained clothes, “War fucks you up.” Thorin throws the rest of his clothes into the basket and tries to determine whether entering the tub without Dwalin’s help would be too hazardous. “That’s what they say.” 

“I thought those were supposed to be drugs,” murmurs Dwalin, and Thorin can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s taking in the grey hue of Thorin’s skin, and the way his ribs stick out, but neither of them says a word about it.

“Bit of both I guess.” 

Thorin lets Dwalin help him into the tub, tries to ignore the way his body seizes up when it comes in contact with too hot water, closes his eyes as Dwalin’s gruffy hands gently clean the vomit from his beard. 

They’re quiet for a while as Thorin tries to steady his hands long enough to properly clean himself, until Dwalin sighs and simply tilts Thorin’s head upwards, their eyes locking. “No more, Thorin.”

He ignores the way his eyes go blurry, and swallows thickly before nodding once. _Okay_ , he thinks. _No more_.

*

Things had gotten marginally better after that.

Thorin had followed Dwalin’s advice and joined a war veterans forum, and even though the prospect of being around people kept him from looking for a job (or at least something to do with his time that didn’t involve guns and war tactics), he’d forced himself to go out at least twice a week. Dis had also started constantly stopping by to bring food and make sure he was okay, Fili and Kili in tow whenever possible. 

Theoretically, Thorin knew those were all nice gestures, but he dreaded having his sister care for him like she was babysitting him, hated having his nephews look at him with sad eyes, as if he were someone that looked a bit like somebody that they used to know but was now a completely different person they didn’t quite know how to approach. 

Dis had coaxed him into seeing a private therapist, and Thorin had been quiet the entire time, staring at the woman without actually seeing her. He thought it a waste of time and money, and had never went back for the second session. When Dis had mentioned support group he’d just laughed at her.

“I’m not a people person,” he’d told his sister, and that had been the end of it. “I’m fine on my own.”

So they’d let him be, until Dis had concocted another brilliant plan that somehow involved setting Thorin up with every available gay man she could find, thinking Thorin would be more inclined to talk to a potential partner (a _stranger_ , he’d thought) than to a bunch of people who had been through Thorin’s same circle of hell but in different times and places. 

That’s when Thorin had reached a weird sort of balance (more of an impasse, really), where he was well past the point of exhaustion --- too tired to keep hanging out with people he had little to no interest in, and yet too tired to tell his sister he was tired, and so forth and so on, in the most dreadfully beautiful vicious circle. And so the post-war ‘therapeutic’ dates had went on, each worse than the previous one. 

*

There’s yet another thing with dates; the thing where _now_ he hates them because they remind him just how much he’s changed.

He remembers having absolutely no problem whatsoever talking to men in crowded, smoky pubs, charming his way into late night ‘coffee’ invitations, apartment keys being handed to him with a hopeful smile, keeping other people’s romantic attention at bay on a semi-regular basis. Always intense in the heat of the moment but distant afterwards. 

“Sharing bodily fluids does not entail sharing private details about one’s life,” he’d argued once, in the middle of a fight. He had trust issues, so what? _Better being me than going around wearing your heart on your sleeve_ , he’d thought.

“People don’t have an expiration date,” had replied the guy. “You can’t just stay with somebody for a month and then leave them because _you_ think the relationship has ‘ _run its course_ ’,” he’d said, making air quotations. Thorin _hated_ air quotations, so he didn’t feel particularly inclined to even try and consider the man’s opinion on the matter.

At any rate, it doesn’t matter anymore, because war has fucked that up, too. Thorin had left whole, and had come back shredded and torn to pieces. 

Now he’s grown moody and temperamental, quiet more often than not. Clumsy, like his body is an alien mass that doesn’t belong to him. Restless, his mind constantly working a hundred miles per hour, throat always too tight like he’s invariably on the verge of a panic attack, flinching when people touch him, and there’s no willing himself into stillness.

*

After a while, Dwalin had tried to help him mend bridges with his old friends, insisting that “They’re your friends too,” had tried to coax him into going to the pub with him and meeting the rest of the company. 

“They all miss you,” he’d said after a pregnant pause. Thorin had just shrugged and replied he didn’t want to see anyone.

There was just something wrong with Thorin, a piece of him that had been broken beyond repair, and he wasn’t even sure he cared about fixing it---- after all, things were going okay, right? He went out. He saw people. Talked to people. So why bother?

But then the dates had started, and he’d just gone from the frying pan into the fire. One tragedy after the other, and he was so sheerly tired of being constantly confronted with the entity of the damage, _his_ damage, that some days he wondered whether all this was worth it. He was useless, and this string of carefully set up, artificial dates only contributed to increase his self-hatred.

The last thing about dates? The thing with his dick. 

The thing where, adding insult to injury, his dick won’t get up, no matter what. 

And at some point (after the fourth date he manages to ruin completely, and the utterly pitiful stare he gets from Dis’ baker acquaintance) he’s dead set on asking Dwalin if it’s the same for him, if every time someone touches him he feels the urge to throw up or bolt or punch them in the face or all the above, but then his pride swallows him whole and Thorin just decides to let it go. 

_Things will get better_ , he thinks. _I just need more time_. 

*

As it turns out, time doesn’t do shit. 

A month passes, and then another, and Thorin’s still the same twitchy, awkward, pathetically limp excuse for a man he was when he first came back from war. Dis still forces him to go on dates, Thorin is still trying to prove her he’s okay so she’ll get off his back, and, cherry on top, his dick is still out for the count - which just drives him up the wall, because seriously? can’t he get a fucking break?

To make matters worse, Dwalin actually guesses what’s wrong and starts telling him that ‘there’s a guy in my support group’ to which Thorin just shakes his head and goes ‘shut it’. 

Dwalin does the honourable thing and tries to talk to Thorin a second time, which translates into the two of them grunting in each other’s general direction and making increasingly crass hand-gestures over several pints, ending the night crashing on Dwalin’s couch, the topic of his dick blessedly untouched.

*

In the end it’s Balin, of all people, who actually _does_ breach the subject, talks to him about PTSD and erectile dysfunction, suggests Thorin sees a professional and hands him a series of ‘medically approved readings’ (fancy phrasing for ‘Oin dug up some of his old journals, do at least open them and pretend you’ve read them next time you see him’), and Thorin regrets ever being born because it feels like getting The Talk from your grandpa. 

Thorin thinks that’s the end of it, until a few weeks later Balin asks him out for coffee because he’s apparently had a brilliant idea. 

“Here,” he says, slipping a business card across the table. 

Thorin frowns into his coffee and picks it up, staring at the elegant silver script. “ _Maiar_? What is this?” he flips the card and notices a phone number. “Is this another therapist? I told you I don’t want to see one.”

Balin shakes his head. “It’s an escort agency.” 

Thorin freezes, coffee cup hanging in mid-air. He very carefully sets it back on the table, folding his hands in his lap, hoping that Balin hasn’t noticed the tremor, and very calmly states, “A what the fuck now.”

Balin’s lips are thin, but he makes no remark upon the language. “Escort agency. High-end escorts. It’s run by a friend of mine.” Balin takes another sip of tea and stares at Thorin like they’re not in a Starbucks discussing the possibility of Thorin paying for sex. “You said you don’t want to see a therapist. This is as close as it gets.”

“ _Prostitution_?” Thorin replies, skepticism clear in his voice. All of a sudden he thinks of Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump and feels the urge to laugh hysterically, because what. “Are we talking prostitute or necromancer here, because believe me when I say at this point I’ve tried everything.” 

Balin huffs, “ _Technically_ ,” he starts, “You don’t have to have sex with anyone. Just a nice dinner without pressure, enjoying the company of another human being. I’m sure it would help.”

Thorin hums. “And how do you know how this _technically_ works?”

“I told you, the man who runs the agency - highly respectable fellow, mind you - he’s a friend of mine.” he stares into his cup, absently stroking the porcelain rim, and --- honestly, Thorin doesn’t want to know, because what. 

_War fucked me up_ , he thinks, _but at least some of it made sense_. 

“I’ll call him for you,” says Balin. “So you can meet and talk. Then you’ll decide what to do.” 

“I’d rather not,” he starts, albeit weakly, and Balin dismisses the words with a flick of his hand. It seems no one actually listens to Thorin anymore. 

Outstanding, he thinks, pocketing the business card and finishing his coffee. _Just what I need. A nice chat with Balin’s madam friend. Life is beautiful, God bless us all_. 

*

Monday morning finds Thorin sitting in a plush chair across from the infamous Gandalf Gri, a man dressed to the nines in a sleek grey pinstriped suit. He doesn’t actually look like a madam - not Thorin’s idea of one, anyway - and Thorin can’t quite figure him out. 

“I assume Balin has explained you how this works?” he cocks his head, staring at Thorin with purpose. Thorin shrugs, so the man goes on, “Very well. I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and personally select the partner that would best suit you. Then I can plan a date, or you can do it, or you can let your date do it, whichever you prefer.” 

“Right,” chokes out Thorin. What is he even doing here? This is the worst idea he’s ever had. It’s not even his idea, really. _What am I doing_ , he thinks again, looking at the door and wishing he were home, still in bed. _I had to shave for this_. 

Mister Gri’s face turns pensive as he looks at Thorin. “Think of it as therapy”. 

“Right,” Thorin says again, clearing his throat. _Therapy where the so called therapist acts nice only because they’re being paid a ridiculous amount of money_. He frowns briefly, thinking the sentence over in his head. _Not so different from actual therapy, all things considered_. 

“I suppose our common friend already mentioned this, but sex is optional.” He smiles gently, and Thorin wonders just _how much_ Balin’s told him. Is he being pitied? As if the entire thing wasn’t dreadful enough, no, now the old man running the escort agency maybe knows that, on top of everything else, he can’t get it up. _Excellent_. 

Thorin shifts in his chair, resisting the urge to bolt. He most definitely doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be home, on his couch, watching old movies and sleeping his week away. 

“I’m not lying when I say you should take this as this therapy,” the man goes on. “If you think about it, the core of the service all my employees provide is not unlike that of a therapist, albeit more… informal. Go out for a nice dinner. Talk to someone that shares your interests. Maybe catch a movie, if that suits you. It’s true, every date ends in a hotel, but that’s just for safety and convenience reasons more than anything, really. What happens behind closed doors is not set in stone.” 

Thorin nods briefly. At this point, he’s 99.9% sure Balin told this man literally everything there was to know. _Outstanding_. 

“Now, for the most important part of our interview. Tell me about you.” 

They talk for a long while, Mister Gri asking him everything from his favourite colour to what he had last night for supper, and just as Thorin’s starting to feel cornered - too many questions, too many demands - the man makes a satisfied noise and leans back, almost sprawling in his chair. 

“You know, the entire point of these questions is to figure out your best match, but I must say I knew who was right for you the moment you stepped into my office.” He touches his nose in a cheeky gesture and then types something into his computer. Thorin still can’t decide whether he likes the man or not. 

“Here we go,” says Mister Gri as he places a glossy sheet of paper in front of Thorin. “This is William,” he adds wistfully. 

Thorin glances at the dossier in front of him and doesn’t even think before saying “No.” 

Mister Gri’s face falls and he leans back in his chair, hands folded in his lap, considering. “May I ask why?” 

_William_ , reads the caption under the picture of a plain looking man with an open face and dirty blond curls. _PhD in English Literature with a soft spot for dining, wining, and gardening_. There’s another picture of him, smiling gently, looking so utterly inadequate that Thorin doesn’t even bother reading the rest of the information. If _this_ is the best the agency has to offer then Thorin honestly wonders how they’ve managed to build such a solid reputation.

“Don’t you have anyone else?” he says, deliberately ignoring Mister Gri’s question. If the man thinks this is Thorin’s best match then Thorin clearly has to do this by himself, as he does everything else. 

Mister Gri purses his lips for a brief second, but then types something on the keyboard and the printer starts spitting out more glossy sheets of paper. 

_No_ , Thorin thinks as he looks at… _Bard, what kind of fucking name even is Bard? and of course ‘classical theatre and Shakespeare’ are the first things listed on his profile_ , and then _no again, this Éomer guy might look hot but no_. Horses are his passion and that, in Thorin’s experience, never ends well for anyone (especially the horses). _No, no, no_ , he thinks as he - very quickly - dismisses Beorn’s profile. Which leaves him with a… _Thranduil_?

He focuses on the picture, ignoring all the rest. This guy’s getting paid to make Thorin spend a pleasant evening anyway, so what’s the point? If anything, he’d like to spend said evening with somebody that looks ridiculously hot. 

“Him,” he says, considering the man’s piercing gaze, his blond hair, the proud set of his jaw, the elegant line of his nose. _Yes, much better_ , he thinks. 

“Mister Durin,” starts Mister Gri, managing to sound both annoyed and disappointed at the same time, “I conduct these interviews with my clients’ well-being in mind, and I must say I don’t think this is going to work out. I don’t think Thranduil’s the best choice for you.” 

_What do you care?_ , Thorin wants to say, _You’re getting paid regardless_. 

“I understand that,” he says, trying for polite but firm. “I’m telling you, though - there’s no way this William guy is a suitable match for me. Meek grocer is not exactly my type.” 

There’s a flash of something in Mister Gri’s eyes, but it passes quickly. “Very well,” he says a bit curtly. “I shall book Thranduil for you. I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” he adds as a brusque afterthought. 

_Of course I do_ , he thinks.

*

Thorin has no idea what he’s doing.

_Dinner was awful_ , he thinks. _Possibly the worst dinner date I’ve had since high school_. He’d taken Lúthien out for milkshakes and a fun afternoon at the amusement park (which still makes Dwalin explode into - frankly ridiculous - paroxysms of laughter) because it was safe, probably safer than admitting he didn’t actually want to date Lúthien but her best friend Mandos. 

At the end of the day he’d thrown up on her because apparently strawberry milkshakes and roller coasters don’t mix well. Go figure. She’d moved on and started dating an exchange student, Beren. Not that he could hold it against her, anyway, considering he would have done the same. Beren was quite strapping in his rugby uniform. 

He found out they’d gotten married only a couple of years before, when he’d received a personalized, handmade Christmas card in which they were wearing matching Christmas sweaters and holding three puppies. Apparently Beren had quit rugby after an injury had ruined his hand and had somehow reinvented himself as a wolf researcher (‘Just like Shaun Ellis!’). 

She’d included two tickets for the premiere of the _Traviata_ at the London Royal Opera House. ‘I play a part in it, so it would make me happy if you decided to come!’

‘You play fucking Violetta,’ he had written back once he’d gotten home, still shocked upon seeing her high school friend up on the stage. _What the fuck_ , he’d thought. Apparently other people’s lives were about a hundred times more interesting than his. 

At least that much hasn’t changed, he thinks as he considers the fact his current date works as a model in his spare time. And apparently has a clientele that consists solely of very well-kept, well-spoken, wealthy corporate lawyers and the occasional politician - not exactly the same as Thorin, Thranduil had so kindly pointed out. 

Thranduil had also made reservations at one of the fanciest vegan restaurants in the entire city, so Thorin had spent the entire time feeling out of place - a feeling amplified by the litany of utter nonsense Thranduil had managed to go on about with such a haughty flair that that he’d had to refrain from punching the man at least five times. And that was just before the amuse-bouche. 

And his voice. God. His voice. Coldly dripping judgment with everything he said. He hadn’t spared anyone, from the maître d’ to the lady sitting alone at one of the window tables, not even their poor cabbie. 

Thorin hated Thranduil with a passion. 

_I thought this was supposed to be like therapy_ , he thinks as the cab stops in front of a five star hotel. _Oh god_. His hands twitch involuntarily. _Great. Even more pressure_.

But Thorin has a plan. He’ll thank the Idiot for the dinner and then tell him to sod off and let him sleep. Gandalf had been clear; the room was paid for by the agency, and the escort didn’t have to actually spend the entire night in it, just send Gandalf a ‘ _in the room, not dead_ ’ text message. So that was it. Thorin was gonna dismiss the Idiot, maybe run a hot, five star bath, and then try to sleep. 

“Dinner was nice,” he blatantly lies as Thranduil leads him to one of the elevators. The other man shoots him a look of pure disbelief and raises a corner of his lips in what has to be the phoniest smile in the history of smiles. 

“I quite enjoyed myself, yes,” Thranduil says, inching closer and resting his hand on the small of Thorin’s back. 

He does his best not to flinch at the contact, and steps into the elevator as quickly as he can. He’s about to effectively dismiss Thranduil when the man presses him against the elevator’s wall, trapping his face in a tight grip and biting Thorin’s lower lip in what’s supposed to be a kiss but maybe is just a display of Thranduil’s latent cannibalistic tendencies. 

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he all but purrs, and Thorin knows this is never going to work when instead of making him feel hot the words wash over him and make him freeze from head to toes, as if a bucket of icy water had been dumped on his head. 

“I,” he says, Thranduil’s fingers raking down Thorin’s side in a not entirely pleasurable way. _Nope_ , Thorin thinks. “I don’t think I’m up for anything, tonight?” it comes out as a question, and he hates himself for it. _This needs to stop now_ , he thinks as his throat starts closing up. 

He pushes Thranduil away from him just as the elevator’s doors open. “Stop.” 

Thranduil raises an eyebrow, bringing his hands up in a defensive manner. “Very well.” Thorin’s almost sure he detects a trace of mockery in his voice, but maybe he’s just making it up. He wills himself to calm down as they approach the room.

The room is actually a suite, so spacious it makes him feel claustrophobic, _and what’s even up with that? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?_ He shakes his head, clearing his throat. _Calm down_ , he thinks as Thranduil flips out his phone and sends Gandalf his check-in text. 

“I don’t need you to stay,” he says, making a beeline for one of the plush couches sitting in the living area but freezing when Thranduil snorts derisively. 

“You have _me_ ,” he says, gesturing at himself like that’s supposed to mean a great deal, “And you don’t need me to stay?” he makes air quotations, and Thorin cringes. 

“Excuse me?” 

“What kind of man are you,” continues Thranduil. “I mean, we both know that dinner was tragic. You’re utterly _terrible_ , but I braved your vapid conversation for an hour only because of the promise of sex and now I don’t even get _this_?” he points at Thorin like he’s an object up for sale. 

_This is it_ , he thinks. “I’m leaving.” 

He’s never felt so humiliated in his entire life, and that’s saying something, all things considered. 

“They’ll see you, you know,” Thranduil says nonchalantly. “As you take the elevator. They’ll wonder why you’re leaving. They all saw you with _me_. They know who _I_ am. They’ll know there’s something _wrong_ with you.” 

Thorin tightens his grip on the doorknob, considering whether strangling an escort would improve or worsen his chances of getting out of this life impasse he seems to be stuck in, but decides to simply leave and put this entire thing behind him.

“Then I’ll take the fucking stairs.” 

He slams the door on his way out, for good measure. 

* 

Mister Gri calls him the following day. 

He slept fitfully - more like slipping in and out of consciousness than anything, really - images of the war and Frerin’s face flashing up in his head like giant ominous billboards, and the last thing he wants to do is revisit the events of the night before, but he picks up his phone nonetheless. 

“Thranduil says you were a difficult client,” says the voice on the other end of the line. Thorin groans, fisting his hand in the pillow and then throwing it across the room. It hits the painting hanging on the wall, making it rattle. 

“I don’t want to talk about-” 

“However,” goes on Mister Gri, “Knowing Thranduil, he’d find Mother Theresa to be a difficult client, so I’m inclined to ignore his input.” 

Thorin doesn’t say anything. What’s there to say, anyway? 

“You see, Mister Durin --- can I call you Thorin?” 

“No,” he says. 

“Very well, Thorin, the thing is, I’ve been doing this job for a long time.” Thorin rubs a hand on his face. “And I know what I’m doing. If I say William is the most suitable match for you, I don’t see why you have to go and choose to disregard my opinion and do something utterly ridiculous like going out with Thranduil, of all people.” 

There’s a pause, during which Thorin is left wondering what the entire point of the conversation is. 

“You’ll listen to me this time,” he says. 

“There is no way I’m going through the entire process again,” he says, leaving the bed and padding to the kitchen. _No fucking way_. 

“That’s not what I said. You and William will go out next Friday, and I’m sure you’ll have a lovely evening.” 

Thorin groans, “Please no.” 

“Thorin,” Mister Gri sighs, sounding like he’s scolding a very reticent child. “Balin sent you to me for a reason, and that reason is because I can help you. Let me help you.” 

He grips the counter and lets his head hit the cupboard.”I don’t need help,” he spits out between gritted teeth. He _hates_ this. Hates people. Hates everyone. _You hate yourself_ , says a voice inside his head, and he hits the cupboard again, this time a little more forcefully. 

“Then consider it a favour,” comes the gentle reply. “An apology. Thranduil _is_ one of my employees, after all.” 

“Okay,” he finds himself saying. “I’ll do it.” 

_Can’t get any worse_ , he thinks. 


	2. (consider the hairpin turn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Thorin the charmer, his bad life choices and his unshaven face walk into a bar. Or is it a date with William?  
> (It's a bit of both, actually)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adulthood is a dreadful thing and I never asked for it. 
> 
>  
> 
> **In this chapter:**
> 
>  
> 
> \- sort of violence but not really? Just a Very Angry Person yelling and throwing things.  
> \- semi panic-attack at some point  
> \- cottage pie  
> \- I am honestly terrible at tagging things 
> 
> Once again, my knowledge of PTSD and anxiety-related issues comes from personal, non-war related experiences and is then filtered through Thorin's eyes. What's left - mainly the topics of war and erectile dysfunction - comes from friends and people I've met throughout the years. I genuinely hope no one finds my way of dealing with/portraying the subjects offensive and/or improper.
> 
> In any case, you're more than welcome to leave me a comment if you feel like I'm doing you a disservice or if I've upset you with my writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

****

**(consider the hairpin turn)**

There’s a substantial number of reports from his high-school days where the word 'temperamental' was thrown around quite liberally, almost always used in relation to his aggressiveness on the rugby field. He might have punched someone during a game (or two or ten) but so what, rugby's a contact sport - sometimes your elbow has to come in contact with a nose to get your point across.

When it came to actual civil interaction, though, Thorin never lost his calm. That’s why everyone saw him as a leader, even in high-school, believed in him enough to elect him class president. No one feared him. No one approached him with caution, worrying he might lash out.

That's all changed now.

*

He's standing in Dis' kitchen, convulsively clutching the edge of the marble counter and forcing himself to breathe - he's so viscerally _angry_ his vision is blurred, the ringing in his ears muffling Kili’s words. 

It had all started innocently enough, with Dis inviting him over for breakfast, and as much as he would have liked to reject the invitation and stay home, he'd tried to make an effort. Be more sociable (which incidentally was one of the things everyone had felt the need to start telling him once he’d gotten back). 

Fili had had to leave early for a morning class, but Kili had stayed, stuffing his face with food and talking their heads off, making jokes and telling Thorin everything about university, Dis’ amused stare bouncing from him to her son.

They'd been talking about small nothings, the familiar smell of crumpets filling the air of Dis' living room, and then his sister had offhandedly mentioned finding a new potential therapist for Thorin, one that came highly recommended from all the people she'd spoken to about her brother's ‘predicaments’.

Thorin had grown quiet at the first mention of therapy, had tried to control himself, but then she'd gone and said ‘predicaments’ and he'd felt his blood boil and had abruptly stood from the table, chair falling to the floor with a sharp crack.

“I _told_ you, I don't need a therapist,” he'd spat out.

Dis had looked at him with condescension, as if she thought Thorin was a whining child who didn't know how to handle himself. “Thorin,” she had said gently, “I think you do.”

It had come out of nowhere, his next move. He’d just grabbed his cup of coffee and flung it across the room, where it had collided with Dis' TV. 

“I said. _No_.”

He'd stalked to the kitchen then, too embarrassed to stay and look at the damage he'd caused. And there he was, compulsively swallowing and feeling three seconds away from a panic attack, gripping the counter so tight his knuckles had gone white. 

When had he become that person, the one who used violence to make a point, who used his physicality to make his opinion prevail on those of others? _When did you become your father_ , he thinks, feeling a new wave of panic rise in his chest like an ominous tidal wave.

He throws up in Dis’ kitchen sink, turns on the faucet with shaky hands, washes his mouth and splashes cold water on his face. He doesn't know how long it passes before Kili approaches him, quiet and cautious like Thorin is a caged feral beast that will maim him if he moves abruptly or says the wrong thing. Thorin closes his eyes and hangs his head.

“Uncle?” His voice is firm but not unkind. “Uncle, I think you should-”

“Leave,” Thorin finishes for him. He dares looking at his nephew, then, and Kili nods sadly, making an aborted move as if he’d wanted to touch Thorin but then had thought better of it.

He walks out of the kitchen, hoping his legs won't give out, and sees Dis crouching in front of her broken TV, sweeping up the pieces of broken glass. Thorin wants to say something, but knows Dis has heard his apologies a thousand times over, and words stop making sense once they're not followed by actions, so he just makes for the door.

“You're wasting it, you know.”

He stops in his tracks, looking at Dis over his shoulder, waiting for her to finish the sentence.

"When they told me Frerin had died and you'd been injured I…” there’s a brittle edge to her voice, and Thorin hates himself for causing it. “But then you got better, and they sent you home, and I thought maybe not all was lost, if I still had my big brother.” She shakes her head, and Thorin takes in the hunched set of her shoulders and the dark circles around her eyes, feeling like an abomination. _What is wrong with me?_

“Frerin is dead, and you’re---” Dis rubs her temples. “You're wasting your gift,” she says, and Thorin doesn't tell her most of the time it doesn't feel like a gift at all, no, quite the opposite in fact.

“Leave now, please. I can't do this. I can't try to help you if you don't want to be helped.”

The full weight of Dis’ words settles on his chest, and he doesn't bother saying anything, simply opens the door and sees himself out.

 _Would that we could swap places_ , he thinks.

*

He remembers about the dinner only after he gets home and checks his phone. There’s a text from the agency that reads ‘ _Reservations for 8PM at Imladris, name Durin_ ,’ followed by a link to Google Maps and the restaurant’s phone number. 

Thorin doesn't want to go. He’s never heard of the restaurant, doesn't care about the dinner and this William person, and more importantly he doesn’t care about being a fully functioning human being. It's obvious he’s forgotten how to be one and can't quite figure out how to go back to when he knew how to behave in society, so this whole exercise in niceties is pointless.

He takes off his shoes, gets into bed and pulls the covers above his head, exhausted and bitter, and falls asleep like that.

*

It’s the annoyingly persistent ringing of his phone that wakes him up.

Thorin grunts, hiding his head under the pillow for a moment before sliding his finger across the screen and muttering a groggy “What” into the phone.

“Mister Durin, I hope you haven't forgotten about your date,” Mister Gri’s voice curt and way too loud in his ear.

From the man’s tone it’s obvious he knows Thorin has forgotten about it, but Thorin also knows Gri would never be so direct as to openly mention it - _counterproductive for business_ , muses Thorin glancing at the clock and noticing it’s already 8.30PM. _What now?_ , he thinks.

“I was just getting ready,” he says, brows furrowing as he tries to figure out how ‘ _I’m not going_ ’ magically turned into ‘ _I was just getting ready_ ’.

“Are you, now.” Mister Gri’s voice is the very definition of dry, and Thorin wishes the man was there, in the room with him, just so he could kick him out and slam the door in his face. 

“Yes,” he all but yells into the phone, “I’m running a bit late is all.”

Thorin presses his finger on the _end call_ icon with a bit more force than necessary, screen briefly turning to pixels, and then gets out of bed, not even bothering to change his clothes before making for the front door. 

He’s about to leave when he catches sight of himself in the mirror, the haunted ghost of a shaggy man looking back at him. He looks positively terrifying - three days worth of stubble, his face unhealthily pale and the skin under his eyes stretched thin and raw from rubbing it.

 _Whatever_ , he thinks. _I don't give a shit anyway_.

*

When he gets to the restaurant, William is already at the bar, sitting on a stool. 

He’s typing something on his phone, face relaxed, and Thorin thinks the man really _does_ look boring, but there’s not much he can do at this point in time. Besides, he’d already tried going out with somebody that didn’t look boring - but was actually dull as a brick - and look at where that had gotten him. _To William_ , he thinks. _Full circle_. 

“Sorry, I’m late.” 

William lifts his eyes from the phone and shakes his head, putting his phone back in his pocket. “I haven’t been here long,” he says, leaving a few notes on the bar. 

The bartender snorts, and Thorin deflates a little. _Great_. They’d probably been talking shit behind his back up until the moment he showed up. Why did he even show up? Fuck Gandalf and fuck Wiliam and fuck Thorin’s life in general. He shouldn’t have come. 

William promptly takes one of the five-pound notes back and shoots a cold stare at the bartender, who has the decency to blush before turning on his heels, leaving them alone. William turns towards him now, and looks up into his eyes, smiling. “Shall we?”

 _Can’t really get any worse_ , thinks Thorin, and he nods. 

*

It’s so much worse. 

The restaurant is not as fancy as the one Thranduil had chosen the previous week, but it’s still too fancy for Thorin’s taste. He’s been on the verge of a full-blown panic attack since the thing with Dis, and at this point he’s so tense he’s pretty sure he hasn’t actually uttered a word since the waiter took their orders. William’s been asking him questions, trying to make polite conversation, but Thorin simply keeps making noncommittal sounds and shrugging occasionally. 

“You know what, this won’t do,” William says at some point. 

He gets up from his chair, and Thorin stares at him, vaguely terrified against his best efforts. Is he about to be dumped in the middle of one of London’s fanciest restaurants? 

William smiles at Thorin, motioning at him to follow. They retrieve their coats, William talking briefly to the maître d’ and slipping a few bills in his hand, and then they’re out of the restaurant. If anything, the cold air helps Thorin focus on the present. 

“I’m so terribly sorry, Thorin, but that place felt too stuffy for me.” 

Thorin looks at him, shrugs. “I suppose, yes.” 

“Also, don’t tell anyone but the food is definitely overrated,” he adds. 

Thorin cocks his head, intrigued. “Is it?” 

William hums, glancing around as if looking for inspiration, and then snaps his fingers, “I know where to go.” 

He hails a cab and Thorin’s curiosity is piqued. “Where are we going?” 

William actually _winks_ at him and, against all odds, Thorin feels himself relax. They’re on the sidewalk, going somewhere less ‘stuffy’, William has yet to make him feel like he’s a piece of garbage and there’s the promise of food to be had. 

Thorin looks down, and finds his hands have stopped shaking.

*

The restaurant is called _Ered Luin_ , and William tells Thorin he’s friends with the owner. 

“When I first moved here,” he says as they sit at a corner booth, “I was hunting for good restaurants - you see, I’m a bit of a foodie, and the prospect of scoping out London’s restaurants posed such an interesting challenge to me that I couldn’t sleep, the first night I got here.” 

He lowers his gaze coily, as if he’s just remembered something, and Thorin stops skimming the menu to observe the way the suffused lighting of the restaurant bounces off William’s curls.

“A friend introduced me to this place… he’s the owner’s brother. Not really a Michelin-starred restaurant --- which is a pity if you ask my opinion, since Bombur makes the best cottage pie I’ve ever tasted. After my mother’s, of course.” He writes down his order and looks up at Thorin, pencil inches from the paper. “But I can promise you the food is good.”

“I think I’ll try the cottage pie,” Thorin says, closing the menu and enjoying William’s warm smile. 

“Excellent choice.” 

The waiter appears seemingly out of nowhere, collecting their tab, asking William how he’s doing and leaving two pints of stout on the table. 

“They don’t really do wine,” says William, “But we can order some, if you want? I’m not sure it’d be much good though.” 

Thorin shrugs, the first taste of the Carnegie Porter chasing away the last of his anxiousness. “I like beer better than wine, anyway.” 

William’s eyebrows shoot up, and he rests his pint on the table before looking at Thorin with intent. “Can I ask why you made reservations at the Imladris, then?” He picks up a breadstick, offering half of it to Thorin. 

“I didn’t. Gandalf did,” he grabs the breadstick. “Said he wanted to apologize for...” 

“Ah.” says William, frowning. “This isn’t really professional of me but--- I’m sorry about Thranduil, he’s…” 

“An asshole?” 

William snorts into his beer. “You said it, not me,” and smiles again. 

It’s not entirely new but somewhat unexpected, the way Thorin finds William’s company refreshing. He might not look like Thranduil, but he’s a good conversationalist, knows how to fill in the quiet moments where Thorin runs out of words, and he does so without making Thorin feel awkward or uninteresting. He’s good at putting Thorin at ease, Thranduil’s complete opposite, and Thorin is regretting the virtually inexistent amount of care he put into preparing for this date. He must look like such a slob, especially close to William, clean shaven and properly dressed. 

Thorin is apparently more relaxed than he thought, because he suddenly blurts out “Sorry I didn’t shave,” and barely resists the urge to slap a hand on his mouth. _Great conversation starter_ , he thinks. _I’m so smooth_.

“I don’t mind, I like it,” he replies, voice low and suggestive. 

They stare at each other, the moment stretching between them like melted caramel, and for the first time in months Thorin feels something other than rage or uselessness, feels like he can do this. He can go through the evening without wanting to claw his (or his date’s) eyes out. 

He takes another sip of his beer, and feels entirely at peace. 

*

As it turns out, unlike Thranduil, William doesn’t really have a day job. 

“I spend lot of my spare time at the library, and a friend of mine owns a small bookshop. Sometimes I help. Books… they make me feel safe, they calm me down. I’m a bit of a homebody, but I guess this isn’t exactly news for you.” 

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” he cheekily replies, curling his lips into a smile, and William laughs, gently kicking him under the table.

“Books are excellent when you want to indulge yourself in a bit of escapism, you know? Whenever I want to go on an adventure I simply grab a book and slay a dragon. Visit faraway lands. Live among mythical creatures, you know, that sort of thing.” 

Thorin can’t really say he understands, considering he’s never really liked the sheer outlandishness of fantasy. “I prefer classics,” he ventures, almost shyly, worried he might disappoint William --- and this is probably one of the most disturbing non-war related thoughts Thorin’s had in a while. 

William’s eyes lit up, and he starts gesticulating wildly, telling Thorin how much he loves classic works and how his undergrad dissertation had been centered around the concept of sin in literature, and an in-depth analysis of the seven deadly sins where he had linked each sin to a classic work. Thorin finds it surprisingly interesting, and reasons it has more to do with the excited way William’s talking about _Notre-Dame de Paris_ rather than the actual topic. 

Thorin doesn’t really know what does it --- maybe it’s the way William’s hand nonchalantly brushes his from time to time, or the way the other leans in conspiratorially, or the fact they’ve already had dessert _and_ coffee but are lingering, still talking about everything and nothing even as the clientele changes and the waiters replace dinner menus with cocktails lists, but Thorin finds himself opening up about the war for the first time since he got back. 

William goes quiet, carefully listening to Thorin as he rambles on about how when you’re at war you never think the worst is going to happen until it does, and how coming back feels almost wrong, almost like leaving what you know for the unexpected, how you don’t feel like yourself anymore and start doubting you’ve ever known yourself at all in the first place.

“I think about Frerin all the time,” he murmurs. “He was my brother, and I failed him.” he adds, not daring to look away from the formica of the table. William’s hand covers his own, soft and dry, and Thorin clasps it convulsively. 

They stay like that for a while, William’s thumb stroking the chapped skin of Thorin’s hand, and then Thorin shakes his head, willing the memories away. “I’ve spoiled the moment,” he says, and William gently squeezes his hand. 

“Look at me,” he says, and Thorin does. “You haven’t spoiled anything.” 

He nods, and when William smiles reassuringly it feels like a small victory. 

“Let’s go,” William says, and Thorin follows.

*

Once they reach the hotel, William suggests they watch a movie, and Thorin, who still feels off-balance from the turn their dinner had taken, is immensely grateful for it. 

They’re twenty minutes into _Some Like it Hot_ when Thorin grows tired of simply looking at William’s profile in the dim light of the living space and decides to card his hand through William’s hair, tugging gently. 

William goes easily, stopping for a second to turn off the tv before bridging the distance between them and sitting in Thorin’s lap, Thorin’s breathing faltering. William’s hand is firm on his arm, skirting upward and stopping at the nape of his neck, fingers playing with the short hair there. 

He kisses a soft promise into the crook of Thorin’s neck, nuzzles his jaw, makes a breathy noise at the feeling of Thorin’s stubble against his lips, and Thorin’s hands instinctively grab William’s waist, and if he grips a little too tight - which he’s sure he does, because he’s suddenly tense, way too tense, _why_ is he always so fucking tense? - William is kind enough not to point it out. 

He simply lifts a hand to Thorin’s face, fingers tracing the bridge of Thorin’s nose. 

He kisses the corner of Thorin’s mouth, hums quietly at Thorin’s sharp intake of breath, and then pauses to look up into Thorin’s eyes. “You smell good,” he says, and Thorin frowns a little. 

“Thanks?” 

William hides his smile into the crook of Thorin’s neck. “Sorry, I was thinking about it earlier but I didn’t want to embarrass you. You smell really good,” he says, nosing the skin of Thorin’s throat, kissing the hollow there. 

Thorin forces himself to stay still lest he disrupts this moment, but he doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, still firmly planted on William’s waist. William murmurs something Thorin doesn’t quite get, and then he’s leaning backwards, enough to look into Thorin’s eyes. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” he says. 

Thorin’s brain puts up an ‘out of order’ sign. _Yes_ , he thinks. “I don’t know,” is what he actually says, which makes absolutely no sense since he’s pretty sure he’s never wanted to kiss anyone as much as he wants to kiss William, so he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and tries again.

He lifts one of his hands from William’s waist and tangles it in his curls. William makes a satisfied noise and leans into the touch like a cat, closing his eyes, a content smile blooming on his face. 

For a second, there, in the lazy, unhurried quiet of an hotel room, where it’s just the two of them, he decides to let himself stop thinking about the war, at least for a few minutes. He really looks at William, instead, decides this moment deserves his undivided attention, and Thorin can’t quite understand why he ever thought William looked plain when he actually is handsome. Maybe not the stark, distant beauty of Thranduil, no, something warmer, softer, more human somehow. 

Thorin moves forward, gently biting William’s throat. 

William moans, rolling his hips and letting Thorin pepper kisses along the white column of his neck, on his chin, and then his mouth. It’s not quite a hungry kiss, but then Thorin feels the pads of William’s fingers on his eyebrow, stroking it gently, soothingly, and it’s like a dam breaks. 

He flips them over, pinning William to the couch, and just kisses him --- hard, biting kisses, like he’s trying to devour him, and maybe he is, Thorin doesn’t even know anymore, all he knows is he wants _more_ , the skin of William’s belly soft and smooth as Thorin’s fingers dig under his shirt, William pliant under his hands. 

“Thorin,” he says, low and breathy, and something dark snaps. 

He thinks of Frerin’s voice - almost a murmur, calling out for him, for his brother, _Thorin_ , he’d said, _help me_ , and Thorin wrenches himself from the couch and the warmth of William’s body, stands there for a second, panic pulsing in his throat as he stares at the room without even seeing it. 

He drops to the ground, head between his knees. _Breathe_ , he thinks. _One, two, three. Easy as that_. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he lifts his head, but William is still on the couch, sitting close but not encroaching on his personal space.

Thorin clears his throat, spitting out the words like they’re sandpaper. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

William shakes his head, “Now, don’t be silly.” 

Thorin chokes on a laugh, shaking his head. I need to lie down, he thinks.

“Would you like some water?” William says again, gently, and Thorin finds himself nodding. 

He reaches the bed in a trance-like state, falls on it without grace. William leaves the bottle of water on the bedside table and moves to untie Thorin’s shoes. “I’m sorry,” Thorin blurts out again. _Fuck_ , he thinks. _Fuck_. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Drink your water,” William says, gently circling Thorin’s ankle with his hand and rubbing it in a soothing gesture. 

“I ruined it.” He’s not sure whether he’s referring to the moment or his life in general.

William chuckles, but there’s no trace of malice in it. “Drink your water,” he says again before moving to lie next to Thorin, close enough that Thorin can perceive his warmth even when he closes his eyes, evaluating it. 

He deems the closeness non-threatening but solid and steady, unwavering. Almost an anchor. Thorin feels fingers touch his hand gingerly, and turns on his side, chasing the softness of William’s body with his own. 

When he opens his eyes, William is looking at him with kindness, not pity, and this is definitely a first for Thorin. “You didn’t ruin anything,” William says again, voice low and soothing. 

Thorin scoots closer, and William’s legs tangle with his own. “I can’t talk about it,” he says. 

“Okay,” William smiles gently, leaning closer. 

“Not yet,” he adds like an afterthought. 

William touches his forehead to Thorin’s. “Okay,” he says again. 

Thorin looks at their joined hands, runs his calloused thumb over William’s knuckles. He feels detached, like he’s a million miles away from his body, like the fingers tracing patterns on the back of William’s hand are not his own. “Maybe I do need to see someone,” he murmurs. “Like a therapist.” He grimaces, the word a personal offense to his persona.

“You haven’t seen anyone?” 

Thorin shakes his head. “Not overly fond of talking.” 

William makes a noncommittal sound and gently extracts his hand from the grasp of Thorin’s fingers. “What about writing?” he brushes his thumb on Thorin’s eyebrow, and against all odds, Thorin immediately feels himself relax. 

“What of it?” 

“Maybe you could keep a journal,” says William. Thorin shrugs imperceptibly. 

William keeps stroking his eyebrow, then his nose, his cheekbone. Thorin’s never been one for unnecessary touching, but now he finds he doesn’t mind. 

He falls asleep with William’s shirt fisted in his hand and their legs entangled, and the last thing he remembers before drifting off is William leaning in and kissing his forehead. 

*

He wakes up with his nose buried in William’s curls, body curled up against William’s, not even the pretense of personal space, and still he doesn’t care. Finds instead it’s not enough. He tightens his arms, effectively bringing William closer, and kisses the nape of his neck, plastering himself against William’s back. 

That’s when he notices. He’s hard as a rock. 

William shifts against him, murmuring something in his sleep, and Thorin tightens his grip on the other’s waist, the foul taste of bile rising in his throat. 

William goes still in his arms. 

“Thorin?” he turns his head, and Thorin’s nose touches his temple. William rolls his hips, ass grinding against Thorin’s erection, and Thorin moans, hiding his face in the crook of William’s neck, gripping his hips with as much strength as he allows himself to use. 

“I haven’t--- it’s been--- I haven’t--” he huffs in annoyance because he’s a grown man, he should be more articulate than this, but apparently he doesn’t have to --- William hums under his breath, shifting in Thorin’s arms and turning to face him. 

He reaches out and puts a hand on Thorin’s chest, steadying him with the look in his eyes and a simple gesture. “Do you want to?”

Thorin groans, moving forward and all but headbutting William. “Please.” 

William lets his hand roam the expanse of Thorin’s back for a second, scooting closer and slipping his knee between Thorin’s legs before moving to unbutton his crumpled shirt. “What do you want?” he says, and Thorin lets out a strangled laugh even as he lifts himself off the bed, helping William take off his shirt. _I don’t know_ , he thinks. _I don’t know anything_.

He looks at Thorin, kindly, and straddles him, one hand working on Thorin’s fly as the other maps out the contours of Thorin’s chest, glossing over his scars before stroking the length of his arm and joining their fingers. William lowers his head slowly, intent clear on his face, and Thorin lifts himself, decides he doesn’t give a shit about morning breath, and kisses him. 

It’s a bit clumsy and desperate, maybe, but Thorin finds he has no idea what he’s doing --- too unexpected, he’s gonna _ruin_ this, doesn’t know what to do, and when William’s fingers find skin, under denim and pants, he lets out a choked gasp, closing his eyes and turning his head, trying to hide even though there’s really nowhere you can go when you’re trying to hide from yourself. 

William gets on his knees then, tugging Thorin’s jeans and briefs down his legs and peppering tender kisses along the length of Thorin’s thighs, gently biting his hipbone, hand gripping the base of his cock. 

He swallows him without teasing, cheeks hollowed, and Thorin’s hands somehow develop a mind of their own, grasp dirty blond curls, tug, and he opens his mouth to say ‘ _too much_ ,’ but the words just won’t come out, stuck somewhere between his head and mouth. William seems to understand him anyway, as he frees Thorin’s dick, kissing the tip just once before stretching to lie beside him, his hand immediately back on Thorin’s cock. 

William kisses his throat, noses the dusting of hair marking the beginning of Thorin’s beard, hand firmly stroking him, and when Thorin feels the moment his body’s about to give up he tries to move away, _too soon, too soon_ , he thinks, but William just goes with him, moving closer, taking Thorin’s earlobe in his mouth and sucking it gently, and Thorin comes, almost doubling over with the sheer intensity of it. 

His head feels like it’s filled with wet wool, limbs heavy. 

William kisses the corner of his mouth before getting out of bed, and Thorin tries to swallow the knot of disappointment that’s wedged in his throat, thinking that this is it, William’s done what he had to, of course he’s not going to linger, of course he’s not going to stay and _cuddle_ , and Thorin didn’t even know he’d wanted him to, feels like he’s lost a chance. 

That’s when William comes back, nudging him to lie flat on the mattress so he can clean him up summarily with a damp cloth. 

Thorin throws an arm over his face, trying to figure out the mess going on in his head. He doesn’t even know where to start, aside from the fact that it’s probably the first time in months he’s felt okay, _really_ okay, not irreparably broken, almost like a proper human being --- which is weird, if you think about it, considering ‘human being’ should not be an abstract concept, an ideal to strive towards, but just a state of being, a starting point, and Thorin doesn’t realize he’s crying until he opens his eyes to William’s worried face hovering over his. 

He finds he can’t quite muster up enough shame to cover his face again, thinks it’s a tad too late to worry about being embarrassed in front of the escort who just wrung the most meaningful orgasm of your life out of you, so he wipes his tears, patting the empty space beside him in a silent plea. 

William doesn’t say anything, simply kisses his nose and lies beside him, taking Thorin’s hand in his and looking at him, a smile warming his features. 

Thorin is man enough to admit (to himself, at least) he doesn’t want the moment to end. 

*

The moment does, eventually, end, and William orders room service, insisting breakfast is the most important meal and telling Thorin to go take a relaxing bath while they wait for the food. 

They eat on the couch, Thorin sitting at one end and William at the other, their legs tangled in the middle, Thorin’s bracketing William’s, TV on as background noise. 

“What are you doing today?” asks William, picking a blueberry from the plate and popping it into his mouth. 

Thorin swallows his mouthful of french toast before replying, “I have to talk to my sister,” he says. _And buy a journal_ , he adds in his mind. It’s become obvious to him that he’s like a broken compass, spinning in circles and fruitlessly trying to find his North even as everyone around him tries to nudge him on the right path. _Maybe it’s time to start listening_ , he thinks. 

“I hope that goes well,” replies William, bumping his knee against Thorin’s. 

He grunts. _Here’s hoping_. “You?” 

William shrugs. “I have to do grocery shopping. Pantry’s empty. Dreadful affair. Then I might go all out and read a book in the park, depending on how adventurous I’m feeling.” 

Thorin tries to hide his smile behind the glass of orange juice, but doesn’t quite manage, if William’s knowing grin is anything to go by. He doesn’t really understand how or why, but he’s grown inexplicably fond of this man, and the thought is terrifying and calming at the same time, the finest of oxymorons.

He rests his bare foot on William’s, trying to convey his feelings without actually having to spell out that he finds the other’s life quite enticing and not at all mockable. William smiles, wiggling his toes under Thorin’s foot and throwing a blackberry at his head.

Afterwards, once they’re done having breakfast and Thorin has managed to muster up enough strength to leave the cosiness of the suite, they kiss each other goodbye, and Thorin tries not to dwell too much on how natural the gesture feels. 

*

Mister Gri calls him that afternoon, while he’s waiting for Dis at the Starbucks closest to her flat. 

“I told you,” he says, happy as a clam and a tad too smug for Thorin’s taste. Be as it may, though, Thorin doesn’t really have it in him to get angry. 

Instead he says “You were right,” and rolls his eyes at the sound of Mister Gri’s laughter. 

“You will find,” the man says, “I’m always right.”

Thorin snorts, but doesn’t contradict him.

*

On the day of Dis’ wedding, everyone had been wondering why the bride was forty minutes late, and just as Jarl had started shooting Thorin panicked looks, he’d been summoned into the small dressing room to find the bride standing in front of a mirror, hands fidgeting with the embroidery on her corset.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” she’d told him, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “What if it all goes to shit?” 

He hadn’t really known what to answer, and Dis had never been one for empty reassurances, so he’d just walked to her, put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them comfortingly. “If it does,” he’d then said, “I’ll be there to help you.” 

She had made a startled laugh, then, frayed at the edges, and had turned to look at him proper. “Pinky promise?” 

“Pinky promise.” 

They had hugged, and he’d walked her down the aisle, Dis so beautiful in her white gown, so happy as she looked at Jarl. 

And Thorin had been there, afterwards, when Jarl had died and Dis had found herself alone with two kids. She’d let him help her, and Thorin had never thought her weak for it---- she was his sister, the same sister who’d punched a guy for stealing Frerin’s lunch when they were kids, she was not weak, or helpless---- she was just adrift, momentarily lost. Thorin had helped her because she was _his_ , part of him, and she had _let him_ , even if sometimes he’d been more overbearing than she would have liked, even if he never quite managed to cook a proper meal, even if he made mistakes along the way. 

“You and Frerin are the only family I have left,” she’d said once, a few months after Jarl’s death, Fili and Kili asleep in their beds and the house looking like a complete and utter mess, toys scattered on the floor and dishes still on the table. 

Dis is sitting across from him, now, lips thin and eyes cold, and Thorin looks at her, remembers the woman in the white gown, standing in front of a mirror with a bouquet of orchids resting beside her on a table, and wonders how far you can go before you realize you’ve been walking down the wrong path all along, and if you can go back at all --- how low you can stoop before you realize you’ve hit rock bottom, and what if there’s no one left around to help you climb back up? 

He thinks of that time in high-school when she told him she didn’t care whether he liked boys or girls as long as he liked _her_ , and how big a difference that had made for him, and Thorin feels he owes her at least an attempt at patching things up. 

“You said something about a new therapist?” he tries, forcing himself to look at her. He’s not really sure he actually _wants_ to see a therapist, but he has to start somewhere, has to let her help, _wants_ to let her help.

Dis stares at him, a small smile starting at the corner of her lips, “Yeah. I did.”

She reaches across the table, stealing Thorin’s chocolate chips cookie, and he smiles encouragingly, the knot of fear in his chest dissipating as she talks to him again, and the way she thumbs through the contacts in her phone, looking for the therapist’s number, feels like a fresh start.


	3. (my grief has no leaves that shed all at once, but needles instead that it lets fall all year round)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Thorin, his issues, his issues' issues and his distrust of the human kind as a whole walk into a bar. Or is it support group?  
> (I'm pretty sure it's support group.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so terribly sorry I skipped last week's update but it's been a busy, busy, b u s y month at work. Don't become a teacher. Just don't. Honestly. Save yourselves. Do something else. Become an escort and go work for Gandalf. I know that's what I'm going to do.
> 
> In other news, I wanted to thank all of you for the amazingly kind and encouraging feedback you've been leaving... i'm really floored! Also thanks to vulcan-rhapsody [for reccing this fic](http://vulcan-rhapsody.livejournal.com/10642.html) (and _To The Ends of the Earth_ , too) on their rec page! I seriously don't know what to say. I'm just. /lies down 
> 
> Once again, my knowledge of PTSD and anxiety-related issues comes from personal, non-war related experiences and is then filtered through Thorin's eyes. What's left - mainly the topics of war and erectile dysfunction - comes from friends and people I've met throughout the years. I genuinely hope no one finds my way of dealing with/portraying the subjects offensive and/or improper.
> 
> In any case, you're more than welcome to leave me a comment if you feel like I'm doing you a disservice or if I've upset you with my writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

** (my grief has no leaves that shed all at once, but needles instead that it lets fall all year round) **

When you’re in a support group, they tell you to draw an imaginary line between the person you were _before_ and the person you are _now_. They tell you to think of a series of adjectives and assign them to each yourself. Then, they tell you to try and reconcile both people into one being, the _post-you_ , the person that’s supposed to move on from the _before_ , cross the line of the _Event_ and then settle comfortably into the _now_ column. That’s what they say, ‘ _settle comfortably_ ’, like you’re at IKEA picking out armchairs.

Thorin’s never been one for settling comfortably, regardless of the circumstances, but he tries, even though he doesn’t think he’ll ever fully master the linguistic games and the abstractions. It feels a bit like going back to school, having to come up with creative comparisons and refined words to define himself, and he’s not sure he likes it.

“The point of those exercises is not to entertain you,” explains his therapist. “It’s to make you consider things you’d rather not think about.”

Elrond is nothing like his previous therapists.

He’s cryptic, detached in a way that makes Thorin feel secure and not on display like an animal at the zoo. He always looks genuinely interested as he listens to Thorin’s retellings of his dreams, and he has this habit of asking Thorin ‘ _what do you think it means?_ ’ as if he truly believes Thorin can actually figure out what dreaming of the London Eye means in the grand scheme of things.

He’s firm when he scolds Thorin, but not unkind, and Thorin has grown to respect the man - since the beginning, talking to Elrond has felt like talking to a peer, not to somebody who’s on a moral high ground because of the power they hold. He respects Elrond and his methods, so he always tries not to skip an appointment.

There are days, though, when the pull of memories is too strong even for his goodwill, when the warm promise of a comfortable bed and the safe cosiness of his own apartment are so enticing he finds he can’t resist any of it. So he stays home, huddled under the covers or folded on his couch, and writes instead.

He figures his brief, bare sentences will never get him published, but then again that’s not really the point. Elrond always reads his journal entries and they discuss them together, taking every sentence apart and analysing it down to its very core, and the routine of it all helps Thorin anchor himself to the present.

At times he finds himself longing for something he’s not quite sure how to name, a sort of restless uneasiness taking over him and making him crave so many things at once that his head starts spinning.

At times he’s bitter, instead, so bitter and angry, jaw working and rage building up until he’s almost vibrating with the intensity of it. He tries to get to the bottom of his rage, to the thing that makes his hands clench into fists until they almost hurt, and finds it not as easy as he’d initially thought.

Thorin discovers Sundays are now the days he cherishes the most, as he gets to spend them with his sister and nephews--- and as he helps Dis set the table, and watches Fili and Kili argue over Skyrim, he almost feels whole again. When his birthday rolls around, all his friends send him texts and cards, actual cards that make his throat tight and his eyes blurry. No one’s pressured him into a big meetup yet, and he’s thankful for it.

Turns out there’s a difference between being lonely and being alone. You can be the former, but not necessarily the latter. That’s what keeps him going while the days drag on. He doesn’t feel like he can give anything to anyone, not yet, but a part of him fears being lonely and alone, even as he’s constantly fighting the urge to lock himself into his apartment and never come out.

_You're not at war anymore_ , he tells himself. _Why do you still think everyone is out to get you?_

*

A week passes, and then two, then a month.

Sometimes he thinks of William - the luscious curve of his lips, the gentle touch of his hands, the way his body had molded to Thorin’s so effortlessly - and there’s a dull ache in his heart whenever he remembers the exact shade of William’s hair, or the soft noises he’d made as they kissed.

Sometimes he’s so tired he falls asleep the moment his head touches the pillow. He dreams tense, blurry dreams about the war, the feel and weight of a gun in his hands, the noise a weapon makes when you shoot it, the noise a man makes when he dies.

But sometimes, sometimes he dreams in vivid, bright colours, of the fragrant smell of french toast, the crisp taste of blueberries as their juices spill on his tongue, and the feel of William’s fingers as they trace the outline of his eyebrow, the unforgiving curve of his nose.

Sometimes when he closes his eyes Frerin is there, laughing with him until he doesn’t, until he’s lying on the sandy ground asking for help. Whenever that happens, Thorin always tries to will himself into awakeness - tells himself it’s not real, not happening, he’s not there anymore - but it never works. His eyelids are heavy and his throat dry as he tries to move, to shake himself awake, but his body refuses to answer his commands, and he keeps seeing Frerin, in a loop, he’s there, he’s on the ground, he’s gone, he’s in a coffin, he’s six feet under.

A month passes, and then another.

*

He and Dwalin have known each other their entire lives.

Thorin was one week old and had just come back from the hospital when Dwalin had laid eyes upon him and told every adult in the room that he was going to guard Thorin with his own tiny body, chubby fingers patting baby Thorin’s head as everyone around them chuckled.

Even now, whenever they meet at Balin’s, Thorin’s always torn between embarrassment and fondness at the sight of the pictures on the mantlepiece, most of them depicting some variation of Dwalin or Thorin or both.

He’s never said it to anyone, but his favourite picture is the one where they’re dressed as pirates, playing in the Fundinsons’ courtyard, using a plastic cart as a makeshift vessel. In the picture, Thorin is six and Dwalin is nine, and they’ve been living in each other’s pockets since Thorin’s been old enough to crawl - which means at that point they were pretty much inseparable.

It had been Dwalin who’d taught Thorin how to drive, in the empty parking lot of a Tesco, and he’d done so with the presumption typical of a teenager who’s fresh of driver’s license. Thorin had been so annoyed that he’d been tempted to crash Dwalin’s rusty truck into the only parked car in the lot, but in the end he’d thought better of it, simply contenting himself with punching Dwalin’s arm once they’d stopped for a chippy dinner.

They’d been together when Thorin had gotten them lost on their big post-high-school trip. Dwalin had fallen asleep and Thorin had taken the wrong exit, driving them to Taunton instead of Brighton. Dwalin hadn’t minded much--- after all what mattered was their freedom to go anywhere, to do anything, to be anyone, but he’d never trusted Thorin with a map again, after that.

All things considered, enlisting together hadn’t been that much of a surprise for either of them, and no one around them had questioned their decision.

They know each other inside out, he knows and accepts Dwalin’s every quirk - how he has one specific cup for morning coffee, one for the 10 A.M. one, another for his afternoon cappuccino and two different mugs for his evening barley coffee, depending on the weekday - and knows of Dwalin’s fondness for musical movies. Aside from Balin, Thorin’s still the only one who knows that, growing up, Dwalin had a _Victor Victoria_ poster hanging above his bed.

What Thorin doesn’t really get, in all this, is why every other week Dwalin decides to ‘ _do the unthinkable and try to turn you into a properly cultured being_ ,’ which in layman’s terms apparently meant ‘ _I’m going to lure you into my apartment with the promise of pizza and then force you to sit through two hours of chipper people singing about love and happiness_ ’.

He sets the beer on the coffee table. “Didn’t we watch this already?” He says, grabbing a slice of pizza and rolling his eyes when Dwalin shushes him.

“We watched this when we were seventeen and you fell asleep before they kissed. Now shut up, this is my favourite part.” Dwalin turns up the volume, the first few notes of _The Lonely Goatherd_ filling the air.

He’s desperately trying not to tap his foot in time with the music, when Dwalin’s phone buzzes with a text, and it doesn’t take an expert to guess who put that amused smile on Dwalin’s face.

“Nori?” Thorin guesses. _Another pub crawl_ , he thinks. _I used to enjoy those_.

Dwalin grunts, fingers flying on the screen as he replies.

“I was thinking,” he starts, so low and tentative that Dwalin doesn’t even scold him for talking over Julie Andrews. “Maybe I could come? If you’re all okay with it.”

Thorin very pointedly does not look at his friend, instead fancies himself very interested in figuring out the abstract patterns on the pizza box.

He’s been meaning to take this step, after all the times he and Elrond have discussed the possibility of Thorin venturing out of his comfort zone. After some thinking, Thorin has figured that his friends are a safe bet--- out of his comfort zone still, but not complete strangers.

“No, I think we won’t be okay with that.”

Thorin hangs his head briefly before turning to look at Dwalin, trying to school his features into careful neutrality, trying to convince himself that it’s okay, it was to be expected after all he’s put everyone through, but then Thorin notices the glint in Dwalin’s eyes, the amused quirk of his lips.

“Asshole,” he says.  

“Hey, you’re the one who keeps interrupting the movie, not me.” There’s no real bite to the words, and Thorin feels himself relax, drawing a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

He’s quiet as Dwalin skips back to the start of the chapter, can’t really tell who’s doing a favour to whom in this scenario. He can’t quite figure it out, so he says nothing and grabs another slice of pizza instead.

*

Sometimes, when he gets home after one of the okay days, he feels incomplete, like he’s missing out on something, like there’s a way to end the day that does not entail him getting into bed alone and staring at the ceiling until he finally drifts off, but it’s something he doesn’t have and doesn’t know how to acquire.

It’s on those nights when he thinks about calling the _Maiar_ agency, but there’s always something that stops him, and at first he thinks it might be fear, but then he realizes it’s some twisted sense of self-preservation that forbids him from calling Mister Gri and ask after William.

He’s made some progress, sure, but he feels unwhole still, frayed at the edges, and instinctively knows William would make it better, but he also knows that no one should have to make it better for him, that curing the symptoms doesn’t mean the problem will magically disappear, swept away under a layered rug of issues.

Elronds asks him if he’s seeing someone, if there’s somebody he thinks of when he gets restless during the night. Thorin tells him that no, there’s no one, but it’s a lie, because in the dead of night, when sleep refuses to come and he feels on edge, it’s to the fantasy of William spread out on a bed, warm and ready for him, that Thorin finds his release.

But a fantasy is a fantasy is a fantasy, and even though Thorin keeps Gri’s phone number on speed dial, he never makes use of it, and then another months passes, and Thorin figures he’s missed the train, the memories of that night distorted by bittersweet regret even as he carries on with his life.

*

It’s a Wednesday and he’s having dinner at Dis’ when Dwalin texts him to say ‘ _We’re going out this Friday_ ,’ and ‘ _I’ll pick you up at 9_ ,’ and Thorin allows himself exactly ten seconds of sheer panic before replying ‘ _See you on Friday_ ,’ and somehow it feels like another step forward.

_Baby steps_ , he reminds himself as he puts his phone back in his pocket and pours himself some more wine.

Dis looks at him over her forkful of lasagna, “Hot date?”

“Yes,” he says. “Dwalin and I are robbing a bank, hiring a couple of prostitutes, stealing a jet and flying to Vegas. Don’t wait up.”

Dis chokes on her Chianti, throws her napkin in Thorin’s face and croaks “I regret you,” and that also feels like a step forward.

*

When you’re in a support group, and they tell you to draw an imaginary line between the person you were _before_ and the person you are _now_ , at first you’re reticent. Mistrustful. You tell yourself you’re still the same person, and that’s inherently true. How can you be someone different? You’re still made up of the same atoms, bones and blood and sinew and muscle all wrapped in the same skin--- maybe a little more damaged, maybe a little more withered, but the same nonetheless.

They tell you to think of a series of adjectives and assign them to each you-- which doesn’t make much sense, considering you’re still the same person. So you start thinking of all the things that are you, and the _other_ things that are you, those that make you uneasy, those that remind you there’s a reason why it’s Wednesday morning and you’re sitting in a plastic chair, surrounded by other people who are like you - a little _before_ , a little _now_.

It’s when they tell you to try and reconcile both people into one being, the _post-you_ , that you find yourself stuck. You’re the person that’s supposed to move on from the _before_ , cross the line of the _Event_ and then settle comfortably into the _now_ column, but if you’re the same person then how come you can’t figure out how to go from point A to point B, when it’s always just been a matter of shortest distances and straight lines?

Your feet are heavy, encased in concrete, and your legs have forgotten how to move. Your brain is sending out the input--- you’re thinking _move, be that person_ , but it just won’t work. You won’t work.

So they tell you to do baby steps - move sideways instead of forward, try and see if sideways comes easier, stay in the present until your legs have learnt how to move again and you can take a step forward, put your foot on that line and walk it, and Thorin spends quite some time shuffling sideways, teaching his legs that forward is unknown but not necessarily a threat, and then he moves forward, and it feels good.

When Elrond asks him how he’s doing, and he replies “I’m going out with my friends this weekend,” Elrond observes him over the rim of his glasses for a long while, eyes intent and searching, and then offers him a cup of coffee.

_I guess it counts as an answer_ , muses Thorin.

*

The things of which Thorin is wary - or downright distrustful - could fill several books.

There’s politicians, and young adult literature, and boybands, and watermelons, and abstract concepts like love at first sight, but most of all, one could say that Thorin doesn’t believe in fate.

Thorin doesn’t believe in fate, because doing so would be admitting defeat and conceding that you’re not the master of your own destiny, that you don’t get to choose for yourself. Fate is a fraud, and there’s no one out there who’s using a measuring rod to decide how much time you’re allowed, because if there is, then they’re doing a great, cruel disservice to everyone.

And if life is a thread, handspun, measured, and carefully severed when the time comes, then Thorin reasons his life must be nylon that Clotho has been quite careless with, at times, forgetting to handle it with the proper care so the sturdy, resilient length of it is now wearing thin in some points. Still, life is not a thread, and as much as you want to believe in a greater entity who has plans for you, you’re the only person in charge of your own destiny.

There’s some perks to go with free will, though.

Thorin finds he’s missed this, the loud chatter and tangy air of a pub, sitting in a booth with his friends and nursing a beer, the cold, crisp, invigorating taste of it and the subtle magic of coasters, of sticky tables and greasy plates of chips, the warm power of a smile and the way laughing somehow feels like coming home---- like he’s _chosen_ to come home.

Fate can’t really stand a chance against the knowledge that it’s _Thorin_ , not a deity, not some cosmic design, but _himself_ that has put him in that place, at that precise time.

It’s weird, then, that when Thorin finally sees him again, it doesn’t happen through the agency, as Thorin had always pictured. It happens months after their first meeting, when Nori is half-drunk, telling them the story of ‘the accidental facial’ for about the hundredth time since it’s happened (and that, too, feels like coming home), and Thorin is laughing into his beer---- and maybe it’s not fate, maybe it’s just sheer luck, but be as it may, it happens, and that’s what matters.

Thorin’s not really thinking about William, too focused on Nori’s excellent storytelling, but then he’s taking a sip of his beer, letting his eyes wander across the pub, and he spots him in the crowd at the bar, the bottle stilling mid-air as Thorin drinks in the sight of William instead.

He suddenly feels like he’s in the middle of the desert, dying of a thirst the enormity of which he hadn’t fully realized until that moment, and William, standing at the bar, is a glass of water, a mirage in the distance.

Thorin is out of the booth before he can think better of it. He hears Dwalin’s cheerful “Where you going?” but he’s too busy staring at William to reply.

He’s waiting for his order, hands resting on the bar, fingers tapping on it absent-mindedly, and when Thorin touches his arm he turns, face frozen for a second before William recognizes him.

“Oh, hello! What are the odds!” he smiles so carelessly, like it doesn’t mean anything, like Thorin hasn’t dreamt of this very moment, of _him_ , and Thorin’s brain does the only possible thing: it overloads and short-circuits.

“I was going to call you,” he blurts instead of the hundred different things he’d thought of saying in the eventuality they ever met again. He clears his throat. “Well, not you you, I was going to call the, ah, agency. I wanted to see you again.”

William’s face opens up in the most beautiful smile Thorin’s ever seen, and maybe he doesn’t believe in fate, but that doesn’t stop him from sending out a silent thank you to the universe.

“You did?” he sounds genuinely pleased and Thorin takes him in, mussed hair, bright eyes, mustard sweater and bordeaux corduroy trousers, and wants to do something really stupid, like kiss him right there and then, tell him he’s missed him. He puts the thought aside, saving it for a rainy day, or for his journal.

“Yes… it’s been a busy couple of months. I didn’t really have the time…”

William nods and distractedly thanks the bartender as she places three beers on the bar. “Well, I’m glad we got to see each other again, then,” he says, like he means it, and Thorin feels his throat go tight with something that’s not fear but not something he knows how to name, either.

“Me too.” Thorin notices his hand’s still resting on William’s, and hastens to retrieve it. “Ah--- I’ll call you? Not you you, I’ll call-”

“No,” says William, “No, you can call me. Me _me_. I’ll---” he rummages in his pockets for a second, stops to frown and looks up into Thorin’s eyes. “Will you excuse me for a second.”

Thorin watches him as he goes back to his table and exchanges a few heated words with a man that looks in Thorin’s direction none too gently. William and the man gesticulate wildly before a red-headed woman nudges the man’s shoulder and says something that makes William laugh and Thorin’s jealousy spike irrationally. The other man hands William what seems to be a small notebook, and William scribbles something on it before tearing out the page and making his way back to where Thorin’s standing, hands in his pockets.

“Sorry for that. Please ignore Bofur. Is he still staring?” He briefly glances behind himself and scoffs. “He’s staring. Seriously, ignore him.” William rolls his eyes, handing him the piece of paper and smiling. “Now you can call me _me_ , if you want.”

Thorin tries to infuse all the fondness he feels into his own smile, and nods. “I’ll definitely call you, William.”

“Ah,” the other says, scrunching up his nose in the most delightful way, “Call me Bilbo. William is…” he looks like he’s at a loss for words, and Thorin cocks his head.

“Too stuffy?”

The glimmer in Bilbo’s eyes as he winks at him is something Thorin is going to cherish for a long time. “Yes, I suppose.”

He grabs the three beers and nods goodbye to Thorin before going back to his table. Thorin tries to wipe the grin off his face but it’s a moot point, if the look Dwalin and the others level him with is anything to go by.

Dwalin clasps his hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “It’s good to have you back,” he says, and Thorin pretends not to notice the tightness in the other’s tone.

He snorts, bumping his knee against Dwalin’s. “Drink your beer.”

_Almost there_ , he thinks. _Not quite back but almost there_.


	4. (promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Thorin the emotionally stunted 14-year-old, his dramatic tendencies and low self-esteem walk into a bar. Or is it a stalemate? 
> 
> (Looks like a stalemate to me, but I could be wrong.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work. Adulthood. [makes wild hand gestures] 
> 
> In other news the school year is almost over so I should find some peace at some point. Maybe. I hope. Who knows, really. Just know that if I disappear for a while it's because students are freaking out over finals and I'm working overtime since I clearly chose the wrong career. 
> 
> Thank you so, so, so, so much for all the absolutely lovely feedback you've been leaving, I'm really floored! Even if it takes me some time to reply, I read your comments every day and they make me super happy!!! Okay I'm gonna stop now. Just go read the chapter. I'll disappear in a cloud of papers to grade. 
> 
> Once again, my knowledge of PTSD and anxiety-related issues comes from personal, non-war related experiences and is then filtered through Thorin's eyes. What's left - mainly the topics of war and erectile dysfunction - comes from friends and people I've met throughout the years. I genuinely hope no one finds my way of dealing with/portraying the subjects offensive and/or improper.
> 
> In any case, you're more than welcome to leave me a comment if you feel like I'm doing you a disservice or if I've upset you with my writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

** (promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep) **

****  
  
On their first date, Bilbo shows up at Thorin’s place with chinese food, insisting Thorin didn’t have to plan anything fancy (“anything at all, really”) because this isn’t _actually_ their first date. ****  


“Did I make such a poor impression that you’ve forgotten about it already?” he jokes, and Thorin ducks his head, suddenly coy for a reason he can’t quite pinpoint, and tries to hide the way his lips curl at the memory.

They eat on the couch, because that’s familiar territory for them ---  because if they do, Thorin can sit closer than he would under normal circumstances, and welcome the way Bilbo’s foot slowly runs up his calf as he tries to figure out the chopsticks, and he can rest against the plush pillows, indulge Bilbo as he steals cashews from his plate.

“What made you want to be a soldier?” Bilbo’s voice is soft even as he stabs another dumpling with his chopsticks and lifts his eyes, staring at Thorin a bit uncertainly. To show that he doesn’t mind the question - appreciates the straightforwardness, really - Thorin drops another cashew onto Bilbo’s plate, nudging the other’s foot with his own.

“I didn’t exactly… I knew I wanted to protect the people I love, the soldier part came later.”

It’s not really an answer, and he knows it. He’s leaving out too many things, tiptoeing around the real answer, and even though the ‘later’ might have prompted more questions, Thorin’s quite grateful to Bilbo for not pushing the issue; he might like straightforwardness but there’s some things he’s not willing to share yet.

“I would ask if you’ve always wanted to be an escort...” he says instead, cheeky, and Bilbo laughs, playfully shoving Thorin’s shoulder. He catches Bilbo’s hand in his and sets his plate aside, staring straight into Bilbo’s eyes.

_Everything’s coming up Thorin_ , he thinks.

*

Thorin figures he must have pissed off some deity or something at some point in his life, because there’s no way this is happening, not again. There’s no way he’s back to square one, not after all it took him to get where he is now.

“I thought we’d worked this out,” he says to no one as he sits on the edge of his bathtub. “I thought we were okay,” he goes on, shooting an accusatory glance at his nether regions.

It’s a little after midnight, and everything had been fine --- they’d watched _Black Mirror_ reruns, Thorin’s hand lazily tracing patterns on Bilbo’s thigh, Bilbo a solid, warm presence against his side, and then, right as episode two was ending, Bilbo had made a small, content noise, murmuring “This is nice,” and Thorin had cupped his jaw, tilting Bilbo’s head up and kissing him.

They’d kissed for a while, until Bilbo had reached out to twine their fingers, all but climbing Thorin and settling in his lap. “You can touch me,” he’d said, kissing the line of Thorin’s jaw, and Thorin had wasted no time, hands skating up Bilbo’s waist, bunching up the fabric of his shirt, one of Thorin’s hands sliding underneath to caress warm skin.

And then Bilbo’s hand had slowly cupped him through his trousers, and Thorin had realized he wasn’t hard. Not even a little. _Fuck_ , he’d thought. He’d excused himself and hid in the bathroom like a real adult, trying to figure out just what the _fuck_ exactly was wrong with him.

That’s how Bilbo finds him, perched on the edge of the tub and staring at the wall.

“It’s okay,” he says, and Thorin cringes. “I don’t care… we can finish _Black Mirror_ if you want? Or I can go home.”

Thorin shakes his head, “No, I want you to stay,” and stands up, following Bilbo out of the bathroom. He knows it’s not okay, but he goes back to the living room anyway, sits on the couch anyway, keeps watching _Black Mirror_ anyway, sitting ramrod straight and ignoring the way Bilbo’s hand is splayed on the couch between them, an unspoken invitation.

After a while Bilbo curls his hand into a fist and rests it on his thigh instead. If he sits a little more rigidly, Thorin pretends not to notice.  

They don’t kiss anymore, and Thorin doesn’t sleep that night.

*

“I wouldn’t consider this a setback,” Elrond says.

It’s Saturday afternoon, and Thorin’s sitting on Elrond’s settee, hands in his hair and hunching forward, trying to decide whether he’s more angry or mortified by the entire situation. He snorts, “Really. How so.”

Elrond tilts his head, considering. “We need to talk about the difference between what you want and what you need.”

Thorin looks at him, frowning. “Aren’t those almost the same thing?”

The other makes a noncommittal sound and pours himself a glass of water, making sure to drag out the suspense in that way of his that sometimes makes Thorin want to snap his fingers at him and tell him to hurry up.

“I don’t know; what do you think?”

_I think I’m paying you too much_ , he muses.

“Want is a byproduct of need,” he says instead.

Elrond slides his glasses down his nose, staring at Thorin like he’s trying to figure out what he’s made of. “Is it really? Do you want air because you need it?”

“That’s not a good example. I don’t want air per se, but I need it to survive.”

“Then, if needs is that ensemble of things you can’t do without, what are wants?”

“Just things I… want,” he finishes lamely.

This doesn’t sound quite right. Thorin rubs his lips, thinking of the actual meaning behind those words. He considers the amount of time he says he wants something, or _thinks_ he wants something, and tries to compare that to the things he really needs.

“I want to go home,” he says, and Elrond arches an eyebrow, staring at him. “But I need to be here.”

Elrond’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What else.”

_I wanted a bike, once_ , he thinks. He’d wanted a Ducati, back when he was in his early twenties. Almost everyone had tried to talk him out of it, saying he didn’t need it, but Thorin had ended up buying it anyway. He still had it, but he rarely took it out anymore, not trusting himself with it; mostly it just sat in his garage, gathering dust. _Guess I didn’t really need it, then_.

“I want this to work,” he says, low, almost a murmur. He’s been wanting to get back on track so badly he’s hardly stopped to consider what he would do in the eventuality of (yet another) failure.

Elrond shifts forward, “But what is it that you _need_?”

Thorin doesn’t know.

He thinks back to the first time he met Bilbo, how uncomfortable he was at first and what helped him calm down. _Talking_ , he thinks. Bilbo’s easygoing attitude. The smile in his voice. The way he’d known to be sweet even when Thorin hadn’t been certain of anything. The way he’d managed to make Thorin feel at ease with his words and the solid presence of him, on the bed beside him.

“I think…” Elrond looks at him encouragingly, and Thorin knows the other is not there to judge him but to help him, but still he feels daft as he clears his throat and goes on, “I think I need to feel safe.”

“And does he make you feel safe?”

“Yes,” he replies automatically. “No. I don’t know.”

Thorin frowns, trying to make sense of what he’s thinking. He likes Bilbo, likes going out with him, but at the same time he feels like there’s still too many expectations of what will happen. _Like the other night_ , he thinks.

“I don’t think he’s the problem,” Thorin says.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t…” he frowns, rubbing his mouth again. He’s thinking he doesn’t really want the sex, because it makes him nervous, but at the same time he wants Bilbo, in a way that makes his blood boil as he shifts on the settee, glancing away from Elrond. Is it possible to want somebody without wanting sex?

“I think,” Elrond starts, “That you and your partner should talk about the possibility of not having sex for a while. Not until you’ve figured out what you need.”

Thorin lies back against the loveseat and looks up to the ceiling. “What if I can’t figure it out?”

When he looks back at his therapist, Elrond is smiling at him. Sometimes Thorin really hates him.

*

Broaching the subject to Bilbo is even more complicated than he’d anticipated.

“It’s my fault,” he says, looking disappointed.

“No, no, I…” Thorin rubs his temples. “Before you - before meeting you I had not… I hadn’t been able to… and it’s not like I don’t find you attractive or I don’t want to---” he looks at him intently and Bilbo nods, “I really want to, but I don’t think right now I’d be any good at it. First I need to get better here,” he says, tapping a finger against his temple. 

_I sound like an idiot_ , he thinks. Elrond would be proud of all the sharing.

Bilbo nods minutely, clearing his throat. “Does this, do we... do we make you feel better?” He says, sounding uncertain.

Thorin rubs the back of his neck, averting his eyes, “You’re one of the few things that make me feel good again.”

“Just not…”

“Just not… not that it doesn’t. That I don’t. I like it. Usually. I _really_ like it.” He’s quiet for a second, heart wild in his ribcage, trying to come up with something that’s not ‘ _I’m not ready_ ,’ because that would be too embarrassing even for him. _Losing my virginity was less complicated than this_.

“It’s okay, Thorin.” He looks up into Bilbo’s eyes, and sees that it really is okay. “I don’t care if we’re never having sex again.”

“I do. I’d very much love to have sex with you right now,” he adds, and only then notices the waitress standing beside them with a pot of coffee. He stares at her for a second before she wisely decides to turn back on her heels and move on with her life.

When Thorin looks back at Bilbo, the other’s making a valiant effort not to laugh.

“That’s good,” he says, “I’d very much like to do the same. In the future. If that will be okay with you.”

Thorin nods, letting his hands rest on the table so Bilbo won’t notice the slight tremor that’s running through them. He feels lighter, like a weight has been dropped off his chest, and realizes he’d psyched himself up for a breakup (or the ‘ _we’re not even dating seriously but whatever this is it needs to stop now_ ’), and what he’d gotten instead had been empathy. Bilbo kept tilting Thorin’s world on its axis and made it look like it was nothing.

“So what do you want--- what do you _need_ me to do?”

Thorin considers what he wants, and what he needs, and decides to start from something he’s already familiar with. “I know I like it when you touch me,” he says, sliding his hand on the table so that the tips of his fingers touch Bilbo’s.

Bilbo gently grasps Thorin’s hand in his and slides his thumb on the chapped skin of the back of his hand. “Then maybe I could keep doing this? Until you wanted me to do more.”

“Yeah,” he replies, throat suddenly tight. “Yeah. That would be good.”

That night, he sees Bilbo’s apartment for the first time, and they eat pizza on Bilbo’s couch, watch _Twin Peaks_ reruns, and when Thorin hooks a hand over Bilbo’s knee, Bilbo shifts so Thorin is half sitting, half lying flush against Bilbo, the other’s arm around his shoulders, Bilbo’s head resting on his head, and it feels utterly and completely _right_.

*

The first time Thorin introduces Bilbo to his friends, two things happen.

One, it barely takes Bilbo five minutes, half a smile and his beer preference to charm all Thorin’s friends, including Dwalin.

And two, Thorin feels completely and utterly inadequate.

It goes like this; they’re out and Bilbo’s so comfortable in his own skin, laughing and chatting with his friends in a way that Thorin’s still not able to, not even after six months of therapy, that Thorin starts seeing himself for what he truly is; a poor fit for Bilbo, for the man sitting beside him, easygoing and with eyes that light up every time he smiles. He watches Bilbo gesticulate with one hand, the other one a reassuring weight on Thorin’s thigh as the evening turns into night, and thinks that maybe it’s still too soon, maybe he’s made a mistake.

That maybe all this time he’s been fooling himself, thinking he could make this work, that he could ever be what Bilbo wants, or needs, or whatever, but he’s _not_ , he’s obviously not, he’s nothing, not really, and most definitely not what Bilbo deserves---- a wreck of a man who’s virtually the ghost of somebody that used to be charming once. _What am I even doing?_ , he thinks. _If we stay here he’ll realize I’m not worth the trouble_.

Suddenly the air’s too thick and Thorin feels claustrophobic. He shifts in his seat, clearing his throat and trying to calm down, thinking that an anxiety attack in the middle of their night out would only serve to prove his point. Bilbo turns his head and looks at him, considering, before breaking into a gentle smile, one of those he reserves just for Thorin.

“I’m pretty tired,” he says. “Do you mind if we go?”

Thorin shakes his head. He knows Bilbo’s not really tired, he’s just trying to give Thorin a way out so Thorin won’t have to ask himself. _I don’t deserve this_ , he thinks. “If you’re doing this for me, we can stay,” he finishes, quirking his mouth upwards in what he hopes can pass for a nonchalant smile.

“You’re tired,” Bilbo says, leaning in to murmur in the space between the two of them, like he’s sharing a secret, like the others don’t exist. “We can go, Thorin.”

Bilbo nudges Thorin’s leg with his knee, and Thorin really needs to leave now, go someplace where the air’s not as cloggy and the lights not as bright, someplace where it will be just the two of them, where he won’t feel like he’s competing (and losing) against his friends for Bilbo’s undivided attention. He works his throat, squeezing Bilbo’s hand and nodding once.

When he looks up from Bilbo’s eyes, Dwalin’s staring at them like they’re a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. “You guys going?”

“Yes, sorry, I’m tired and I work tomorrow,” says Bilbo, and Dwalin squints, making a vague noise. “It was really nice meeting you though.”

Bilbo’s still fending off attempts at making them stay even as Thorin’s zipping up his jacket and leaving a few notes on the table to cover their share, wishing they were already outside, already alone. Thorin watches him as he exchanges numbers with Ori, firmly shakes Dwalin’s hand and doesn’t fluster in the face of Dwalin’s ongoing scrutiny, and then they’re finally out of the pub, Thorin closing his eyes and taking deep breaths to steady himself.

Bilbo’s hand is warm and dry when he twines their fingers, the cool May breeze carrying the sweet promise of spring, and Thorin wants so many things at once he can’t really tell what’s wish and what’s necessity anymore.

“Do you want to go home?” He says, voice soft.

_He’s really beautiful_ , Thorin thinks distractedly before leaning in and cradling Bilbo’s face in his hands, mashing their lips together ungracefully. It’s more of a bite than a kiss, Thorin hungry and desperate and still longing - longing for Bilbo’s warmth, his hands on him, the noises he makes when Thorin tilts his head just _so_ and makes the kiss a little less hungry, a little deeper. When he finally feels himself again, Thorin opens his eyes and takes in the sight of Bilbo, hands clutching Thorin’s jacket, eyes closed and breathing laboured.

“Let’s get Yog,” Thorin murmurs, thumbs stroking Bilbo’s cheekbones.

They eat sitting on a bench, Bilbo making pleased noises every time the spoon touches his lips and Thorin’s arms around Bilbo, the other’s head tucked under Thorin’s chin. He leans back against Thorin’s shoulder, nosing his jaw, and tells him “You should eat your yogurt now that it’s still cold, instead of squeezing me like this”, but there’s no real bite to the words and Thorin finds himself unable to let go, his yogurt lying forgotten on the bench beside him.

Later, when he gets home, after he’s spent a solid ten minutes snogging Bilbo within an inch of his life, trying to convince himself that this is enough - that _he_ ’s enough, - Thorin’s emptying his pockets when he notices he has an unread text from Dwalin.  

_He’s good for you_ , reads the texts.

_I know_ , he thinks. _It’s the other way around that I’m not sure of_.

*

Two weeks later, just as May is lazily turning into June, the air still too chilly to be considered a proper prelude to summer, Thorin remembers Dis’ birthday, and the big party that usually comes with it. Somehow, Elrond convinces him that inviting Bilbo to the party will be a good idea, a way to help Thorin cope with the sudden onslaught of attention he’s bound to receive from his relatives, and against all odds, Thorin finds himself agreeing.

He hasn’t told anyone about the night at the pub, has tried not to think about it, and even though part of him just wants to stay home and do something else, that weekend Thorin picks up Bilbo and drives them to Dis’ house, quiet all the way and barely listening to what Bilbo’s saying.

Once he parks in front of the Victorian house, Bilbo shifts in his seat, taking Thorin’s hand in his and telling him it will be okay. “It’s just a birthday,” he says, and Thorin doesn’t really have it in him to contradict him.

“My family’s a little overwhelming,” he replies instead.

“I can do overwhelming,” he smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.

_I know_ , Thorin thinks, but says nothing.

*

Unsurprisingly, Bilbo manages to charm Thorin’s sister and remaining relatives, which, much to Thorin’s chagrin, include Dain.

“I don’t understand why he had to come,” Thorin grunts as he watches Dain approach Bilbo and start a conversation.

He’s standing at the buffet table, trying to decide whether Bilbo would prefer caramelised or grilled onions to go with his mini-burger and feeling increasingly disgruntled. Beside him, Dwalin shrugs.

“He’s your cousin.”

“I don’t like him,” he says, hands curling into fists as Dain touches Bilbo’s forearm. Talking is one thing, and Thorin wasn’t really expecting Bilbo to stand in a corner all day and talk to Thorin and Thorin only, but in the four hours they’ve been at Dis’ house he’s barely had five minutes alone with Bilbo before somebody decides it’s their turn to get acquainted with the man.

_It’s unnerving_ , he thinks as he keeps track of Dain’s movement, the way he’s inching closer to Bilbo. Touching is something that apparently doesn’t sit well with Thorin, especially since his cousin is the one doing the touching.

“I didn’t make you for the jealous type, you know,” there’s a smirk woven into Dwalin’s words, and Thorin decides to ignore it. _I didn’t know either_ , he thinks.

There’s no love lost between Dain and Thorin, and it’s not a secret. What is also not a secret is the fact Bilbo came with Thorin, as Thorin’s plus one, and that Thorin has been referring to Bilbo as “ _his Bilbo_ ” for quite some time now. _I brought him here_ , he thinks. _He should stay by my side_.

Instead Dain’s the one by Bilbo’s side, and Thorin’s blood is starting to boil. _I shouldn’t have brought him_.

“What are they talking about?” He mutters under his breath. _They just met. When I met him, It took me at least an hour to find something to talk about. Why does talking come easy to anyone but me?_

“Planning to elope as soon as you turn to refill your glass, no doubt.” Dwalin piles a few mini-quiches on his plate and shoots Thorin a sidelong glance. “Are you okay?”

“I’m gonna break his nose,” he says.

“Please don’t.”

Bilbo’s laughing now, and Dain looks so fucking pleased that Thorin just wants to punch that smile off his face. _Do I make him laugh like that?_ he thinks. He’s not sure, and that’s the last straw. Thorin drops Bilbo’s plate on the table and before he knows it, he’s wedging himself between Bilbo and Dain, ignoring his cousin in favour of grasping Bilbo’s wrist, “I need to talk to you.”

Thorin drags him along, ignoring Bilbo’s protests. It’s only when they reach the kitchen that he releases Bilbo’s arm and turns, takes in Bilbo’s guarded expression. Knowing he’s behaving irrationally, out of jealousy and insecurity, only serves the purpose of making him angrier.

“I don’t want you talking to him,” he starts.

Bilbo frowns, “Dain?”

“I don’t like him.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Bilbo replies, huffing and shifting his weight on one leg. “He’s a pleasant person, and-”

“I said no,” he yells, and Bilbo freezes, staring at Thorin like he’s never seen him before.

It’s all too reminiscent of the last fight he had with Dis, the one that ended with him breaking her telly and hiding in the same kitchen where they’re standing now. _That was the day I met him_ , part of him pipes up unhelpfully.

Thorin feels a wave of shame wash over him.

Bilbo closes his mouth into a thin line, the silence suddenly deafening. Thorin wants to apologize--- _needs_ to apologize, to say something, tell Bilbo why he’s behaving like an asshole, that he’s jealous and stupid and insecure, and doesn’t know how to do this, but then Bilbo says something first, and Thorin loses his chance.

“I will not stand here while you yell at me,” his voice is cold and unforgiving, and he leaves the kitchen without another word. When Thorin manages to avert his gaze from the empty space where Bilbo was standing no longer than a minute ago, he looks down to his hands, and realizes they’re shaking.

Thorin really hates Dis’ kitchen.

“He went out on the back patio,” comes his sister’s completely disinterested voice. Dis is leaning against the doorframe, checking her nails. “Just in case you were thinking of running after him and apologize. And in case you weren’t, I urge you to reconsider.”

He’s out of the kitchen before she’s even finished the sentence.

*

Growing up, even after they’d moved to England, they were lucky enough to have a lot of toys, but there was one that Frerin cherished above all the others; it was a small snowglobe, a little souvenir their mother had managed to bring back from Erebor. Thorin never quite understood why his brother was so fond of it, but the day he accidentally broke it whilst playing with Dwalin, Frerin had ignored his apology and yelled at him until his voice was raw, telling Thorin how much he hated him, how he was never going to forgive his brother for breaking the snowglobe.

Since fixing it was impossible, Thorin had made another one using an emptied lightbulb, some glitter and the original plastic figurine of Erebor’s Palace of Justice. He’d used electrical tape to close the top half, and super glue to attach the bottom half to a piece of cardboard, on which he’d scribbled Erebor in blocky, childish characters.

He’d simply left the gift on Frerin’s bedside table without apologising again, and the following day he’d found his brother playing with it, treating his new makeshift snowglobe with the same care one would give to a precious item, and Thorin had known he’d been forgiven.

_Things aren’t as easy, now_ , muses Thorin, closing the veranda doors behind him and staring at Bilbo, currently hunched on the hardwood glider bench. He’s cradling his head in his hands, shaking it from time to time, and Thorin curses his bad temper and his penchant for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“Are you gonna stand there all afternoon?” says Bilbo, his voice still so cold that Thorin toys with the idea of going back inside and never facing Bilbo again.

_Don’t be a coward_ , he tells himself.

“May I sit with you?”

“Do you really have to ask?” It’s question after question, and Thorin wonders if they can go an entire conversation asking things instead of outright saying them.

“I’m not here to fight,” he starts, making for the bench. “I’m here to apologize.”

When he sits beside Bilbo, the other has shifted his gaze from the ground to the sky, grey and heavy with the promise of rain.

“I was jealous.”

It’s a murmur, but Bilbo’s head whips around in an instant and he stares at him, eyes wide. “Of what? Of _Dain_?”

Thorin growls a little, and Bilbo rolls his eyes, “Of _Dain_. Of all people.”

“Does this mean there’s somebody I should be jealous of?”

Bilbo snorts, but says nothing. Given the other’s job, Thorin thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have said that. _Tread carefully_ , he thinks.

“You just smile so easily at him.” It comes out a little more strained that he’d originally intended, but Thorin tries not to shy away from the look Bilbo’s giving him, even if it makes him feel naked, as if Bilbo were inside his head.  

“I smile at everyone,” he says at last, gaze softening. “I like smiling. Keeps me young,” he smirks, bumping his shoulder against Thorin’s, and Thorin knows he’s undeserving, and way too lucky, and that Bilbo’s already forgiven him, and he feels his throat tighten, heavy with an emotion he’s not really keen on naming yet.

Thorin leans against the back of the bench, arm sliding around Bilbo’s shoulders. “I know it’s childish,” he says, almost a whisper, “But sometimes I don’t want you to smile to anybody that isn’t me.”

Bilbo hums, resting his hand on Thorin’s thigh and rubbing it soothingly. “I can’t promise you that,” he says, voice a murmur, and Thorin feels like an asshole. Bilbo shouldn’t even have to consider that.

“I don’t want you to. I want you to be happy, I want…” He trails off. _I want to be the one who makes you happy_ , he thinks.

“What?” Bilbo shifts in his arms, trying to look at him, but Thorin tightens his hold, keeping the other flush against his side. “Thorin, what?”

“Maybe you’d be happier without me,” he says, and there’s no taking it back.

Bilbo tenses into his arms and this time, when he shifts to pull away from Thorin, he lets him.

“Don’t do this,” he says, angry and still gripping Thorin’s thigh. “Don’t do the tragic Byronic hero routine, I don’t care for it. Just tell me; do you want this to end?”

“No,” Thorin says, and the hurt in his voice is so evident that it makes him cringe and take his eyes off Bilbo. _I’m a fucking mess_ , he thinks. _Why would anyone want to deal with this?_

“Then stop being an idiot.” He squeezes Thorin’s thigh, voice soft again as he says “I’m not going anywhere.”

Thorin groans, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on Bilbo’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” he whispers, burying a hand in Thorin’s hair.

Dwalin finds them a while later, Bilbo sitting sideways on the bench and resting his head on Thorin’s shoulder, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the back of Thorin’s hand.

“Here you are.”

“Here we are,” murmurs Thorin, letting Bilbo caress soothing circles on the inside of his wrist.

“He's left.”

Thorin tenses immediately. He’d completely forgotten about Dain, and his sister, and the party. _Dis is going to kill me_ , he thinks. Bilbo squeezes his forearm, shifting closer so he’s pinned flush against Thorin’s side, and Thorin’s arm instantly come up to loop around his shoulders.

“Are…” out of the corner of his eyes he can see Dwalin shuffle on his feet, and fights the urge to smile at the sight. “Are you two okay?”

The totally unimpressed glare Bilbo is giving Dwalin is something he wants to cherish until the day he dies, and he doesn’t even hear what Dwalin’s saying about sass as he hides his face in the crook of Bilbo’s neck and kisses the last apology into soft, welcoming skin.

He still reserves the right to rip Dain’s throat apart with his teeth, just in case, but maybe it’s not the end of the world.

*

There’s this paradox, called the Irresistible Force Paradox, that’s supposed to address the eternal question; what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? A common answer is that the unstoppable force is consumed by the immovable object, with an immeasurable release of heat.

Thorin’s never been one for abstractions, but in the weeks that follow Dis’ birthday party he learns that Bilbo is like a volcano; unassuming exterior that can trick people into thinking him quiet and pliable until he erupts and you discover the truth - there’s fire inside of him, this constant ocean of scalding lava that fuels him and makes him power through the day like he’s unstoppable, this unstoppable force that defies every law of physics.

Thorin is immovable. Still stuck somewhere in between his _before_ and his _now_ , not quite done taping himself back together, and he doesn’t really know how to move - his feet lead and his heart stone.

Bilbo crushes him in his wake.

Thorin finds he doesn’t mind.


	5. (don't let it be clubbed into dank submission)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Thorin, his bad dreams, lots of manpain, and a frankly ridiculous number of swans walk into a bar. Or is it a journey of self-discovery? 
> 
> (Jury's still out. You never know, with Thorin.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work????? Adulthood????????????? Apathy?????????????????? Where did my Muse go??????????????????? No one knows. I think it's back now though. Just in time, as I'm leaving for Ireland tomorrow. 
> 
> What I'm saying here is, expect no updates for at least a month because I'll be on vacation. If you want to yell at me, feel free to do so over on [twitter](https://twitter.com/coveredindurins). Or [tumblr](http://coveredinsnow-.tumblr.com/). But please don't yell too loud. 
> 
> I have absolutely no words to express what reading your feedback does to me. I'm still not over how many of you actually took time to read, leave kudos, comment and actually message me on tumblr to leave even more feedback. I'm just. So thankful, honestly. I'm a slow-writing baboon but I promise we'll see the end of this at some point in the not too distant future. 
> 
> As usual [plays record] my knowledge of PTSD and anxiety-related issues comes from personal, non-war related experiences and is then filtered through Thorin's eyes. What's left - mainly the topics of war and erectile dysfunction - comes from friends and people I've met throughout the years. I genuinely hope no one finds my way of dealing with/portraying the subjects offensive and/or improper.
> 
> In any case, you're more than welcome to leave me a comment if you feel like I'm doing you a disservice or if I've upset you with my writing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**(don't let it be clubbed into dank submission)**

 

 

The first time someone lies to him - the first time he can remember, at least - he’s eight years old.

It’s November, a warmer November than they’re all used to, so he’s outside playing hide-and-seek with Dwalin, Dis, and Frerin. Dwalin’s almost always it, and this time is no exception; when he starts counting, Frerin runs into the house, and after looking at the way Dis climbs a tree and gives him a thumbs up, Thorin decides to hide in plain sight. There’s a big tool shed right at the edge of the garden, the perfect hiding place, and he’s sure that Dwalin won’t find him, too busy looking in all the uncommon places to think of something as unimaginative as the shed.

Five minutes into the game he hears Dwalin’s triumphant scream and Dis’ disappointed “You’re cheating,” and decides he’s made the best choice when, instead of making for the tool shed, he spies them walking back to the house, their voices distant as they call out his and Frerin’s names. He decides to relax, then, and sit on the ground, waiting for his friends to come out again.

That’s when he sees the colourful packets on the bottom shelf of the cupboard - different-sized boxes wrapped in Christmas-themed paper. Part of him knows he should just pretend he hasn’t seen anything, possibly leave the tool shed and hide someplace else, just in case Dis decides to tip Dwalin off so they can start over again, but at eight years of age he’s mostly just curiously drawn to the colours and the idea of a secret shelf with Christmas presents on it, so he grabs one of the packets and examines it closely.

The wrapping paper is red, dotted with white, smiling snowmen wearing scarves and gloves, the ribbon is golden, slightly shimmering in the feeble sunrays coming in from the cracks in the wood paneling. Thorin touches it, mesmerized, wraps one end around his finger and plays with it before realising there’s a note attached to the ribbon with a piece of nylon. He opens the note, touches the words with his fingertips.

_ Merry Christmas Frerin! _

_Love, Mom and Dad_

He puts it back on the shelf like he’s been burnt.

Why are these presents there? Did Santa bring them in advance to make sure they’d have all their presents in time (which sounds like a sensible thing to do), or did he deliver them late, so these are technically leftovers from the past year? Thorin’s not sure. There’s also a third possibility - the one that makes him think his parents are simply hiding the presents because they’re the ones who bought them, _not_ Santa, and that Santa isn’t _real_ , but it’s a disheartening thought that makes him want to cry for some reason, so he shoves it aside quickly.

Thorin’s about to grab the next package and start looking for clues when the door to the shed tears open and Dwalin’s face comes into view.

“I found you!”

Thorin scrambles to his feet, presents forgotten, and runs for the base, Dwalin right behind him.

It isn’t until later that night that he remembers about the presents, and when his mother is tucking him in he grabs the hem of her blouse and asks the scariest question he’s ever thought of, “Is Santa Claus real?”

There’s a fraction of second where his mother freezes before consciously relaxing, and Thorin has his answer even before she starts talking, “Of course he is. What makes you think he’s not?”

“Nothing,” he replies, turning on his side and sniffing into his pillow. His mother bends to kiss his brow and wish him a good night.

That’s the first time someone lies to him (the first time, but not the last), and even though its aim is to protect instead of mock and hurt, a lie is a lie is a lie, and Thorin decides he hates lies, and he’ll never lie to anyone about anything.

*

When they’re four months into this - four months since their first official date, a month since Dis’s birthday - Bilbo tells him a friend of his is getting married, so he’ll be out of town for a few days.

“It’s a country wedding, I’m so excited,” he says as he shows Thorin the invitation. “Four days in a beautiful country resort.”

There’s a terrifying, hopeful second in which Thorin thinks Bilbo’s about to ask him to be his plus one, followed by the terrifying realisation he’d have to meet  _people_ , Bilbo’s people, and be with them for  _four days_ , but Bilbo doesn’t ask so it’s a moot point, and if Thorin feels a small pang of disappointment--- that’s nobody’s business.

Bilbo leaves on a Friday afternoon, and as he stashes the other’s suitcase in the boot, Thorin feels strangely disconnected from himself, like he’s having an out-of-body experience.

“I’ll call you,” Bilbo says, quiet, steady, fingertips lightly tracing the back of Thorin’s hand.

“Okay,” he replies, and bends to kiss Bilbo.

Thorin watches him go, steadily ignoring the uneasy feeling that’s settling in his bones.

*

That night, after fifty minutes spent tossing and turning in the bed, Thorin just gives up the pretense of being a fully functioning human being that abides the laws of logic and simply gets up, makes himself a cup of tea, and groggily flops on the couch, turning the TV on. As it turns out, the night time show schedule is even more disappointing than his life (which is quite a feat, he has to admit), and he’s been channel surfing for three hours, going from praying mantis documentary to _Dog With a Blog_ , when he decides to pick up his phone and text Bilbo.

_there is a talking dog that writes a blog about his life_ , he types.

Fifteen seconds later, his phone buzzes. Thorin frowns, noting it’s a text from Bilbo.

_ Where? _

_ it’s 4am did i wake you _

_ No Bofur is having REALLY FUCKING LOUD sex in the room next to mine. Can’t sleep. Where’s this prodigious dog? _

Thorin snorts, moving one of the throw pillows so he can lie more comfortably. _on the telly_ , he replies.

_ See if you can recruit him, between him and the Wondrous Yodeling Bofur we could start a circus. _

Thorin smiles at the screen, _i’ve always liked the circus_

_ This wedding is a bloody circus, they have swans. Who the hell has SWANS at their wedding? _

He laughs out loud, rubbing his face.

_yes but do they have a blog_ , he types, and fancies he can hear Bilbo’s delighted laughter as he reads the text.

_Is it okay to miss someone even as you’re talking to them?_ , he asks himself, fondly stroking the screen with the pad of his finger, a sort of calm melancholy setting over his bones as he falls asleep, like that, still clutching his phone.

*

These days, when he dreams of Frerin, it’s always in the same setting.

They’re at the beach, both a lot younger, and he’s lying on the sand, sun warming his face. He’s wearing clothes, even though Frerin’s in his bathing suit, asking him help with building a sandcastle.

“Can’t you see that I’m busy?” he tells Frerin without opening his eyes, and his brother begs him “Please,” but Thorin waves a hand, pushing him away so he’s not blocking the sun, keeps ignoring him even as Frerin sighs and leaves Thorin’s side. Only then he opens his eyes. Usually, Frerin’s gone. Completely gone. He’s nowhere to be seen, not on the seashore, not in the water, not back at their car, and Thorin starts panicking, calling his name until he wakes up.

Sometimes, though, sometimes Frerin’s still there even though Thorin heard him go away. He’s still there, looking down at him, eyes unreadable and empty. “It should have been you,” he says, as he starts bleeding - first from a scratch on his brow, then another on the side of his neck, and another, high on his breastbone, and another, another, _another_. Thorin says nothing, just lies back on the sand, and closes his eyes again.

*

It’s the pitter patter of the rain against the windowpanes that wakes him the next day. It’s 10 am and the sky outside has an eerie quality to it, so dark it almost looks like night time. There’s a kink in his neck, and he feels slightly haunted, skin too tight, like there’s something he’s supposed to do, somewhere he’s supposed to be, but he’s just forgotten about it.

The room is briefly cleared by lightning, and when thunder comes, Thorin is suddenly struck by the image of Frerin, standing beside him on the sand, face void of emotion as he bleeds out the words Thorin has been telling himself since he came back.

_It should have been me_ , he thinks, hands curling into fists until he notices he’s still holding his phone. The display lights up with two unread texts, both from Bilbo: _I’ll ask Arwen. Inquiring minds want to know._ and _Good night, Thorin._

_It should have been me_ , he thinks again. _Right?_

He’s not so sure anymore, and that’s possibly the most jarring thought he’s had in his entire life, so he does what he knows best - he buries it deep in the recesses of his mind, and vows to never think of it again.

_Right_ , he tells himself, and gets up from the couch.

*

If there’s a thing Thorin learnt at a very young age is that one should never mention anything offhandedly to Dis; never say things like ‘I can drive the boys to the store if you have to work,’ because she never forgets. It can be three days or three months later, she _will_ show up at your flat, sons in tow, and say ‘Remember when you promised to go grocery shopping?,’ before dumping Fili and Kili in Thorin’s lap. Which is how and why Thorin finds himself walking out  of his flat and into the living, breathing landmine of an afternoon at Tesco with his nephews, Fili pushing the trolley next to him.

“I’m sorry you got roped into this,” says Fili as they both watch Kili crouch a few feet ahead, face scrunched up in extreme concentration as he browses the shelves.

“I don’t mind.” He clearly does, but Fili is smart enough not to mention it.

The fundamental problem with spending time with his nephews is that they’re unpredictable, which never fails to make him feel like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone to push him over. It used to be different, he used to be better at handling them, but he used to be better at a lot of things, so he tries not to think about it too much.

Thorin sighs to himself, glaring at every single item that gets placed in the cart and trying to stay focused on the task at hand. Forage for food. Drive home. Resume watching The X-Files in his pajamas. Not all is lost, and a passive-aggressive stare-down with a box of shortbread is somehow guaranteed to make him feel better about this entire ordeal.

When they stop next to Kili, he reaches out his hand and tugs at Fili’s jeans, “I don’t know which soup I want.”

Fili kneels beside him with a resigned sigh, grabbing the first can he sees and tossing it in the trolley. Kili shoots him an unamused glance before pushing him, so Fili loses his balance and sways on the balls of his feet for a second, arms flailing.

Thorin rubs his temples, viciously eyeing the offending can of soup and pushing the trolley out of the way to make room for an old lady with a walker. Fili and Kili are landmines of their own, always stepping on each other on the path to self-destruction, and no matter how hard Thorin tries to steer clear of them, nine times out of ten he finds himself in the middle of the explosion. He rolls the trolley onward, pretending he doesn’t know the two idiots arguing over the (already questionable) quality of canned soup.

They’re still bickering ten minutes later, when they’re outside in the parking lot. The conversation has gone from soup to ‘Fili, why do you always have to be such a prick,’ passing through ‘Uncle said I could sit in the front seat’ before settling over who gets the Xbox first once they get home, and it’s an epiphany when Thorin realises how normal everything feels, how non-threatened he feels by his surroundings and the situation.

The parking lot is busy, people chatting everywhere, and for some absurd reason he’s not feeling the urge to run and hole up in his flat, away from the world. He stops in his tracks, and Fili, who was in the act of pulling Kili’s ponytail, turns towards him, arm still in mid-air.  

“Uncle?” It’s Kili that asks the question, face worried.

“I’m fine,” he says, frowning slightly at the way the words unfold from his mouth, as if they have a right to sound so comfortable and easy.  

Fili looks at him consideringly, and then curls his lips. “Let’s go home, then.”

They’re both quiet on the way back, and Thorin is thankful for small mercies that help him distract himself.  

*

That night he’s in the kitchen, trying to make sense of Dis’ instructions on how to reheat the leftover Cumberland pie that she gave him as a thank you for dealing with Fili and Kili, when his phone lights up with a notification.

It’s a picture of a scowling Bilbo holding a swan-shaped placeholder, and Thorin has a moment of irrational jealousy where he wonders who, exactly, took the picture, but decides to let it go and simply reply; _what is it with the swans?_

_No one knows_ , followed by a picture of what looks to be a truly respectable roasted beef tenderloin with a side of potatoes and gravy.

_looks good_ , he types, fingers hovering over the screen as he tries to come up with something else to say. In the end, he decides for a picture of his Cumberland pie, knowing that Bilbo will probably appreciate food more than anything else.

_ Did you make that? _

_ dis did. I wouldn’t know where to start _

_ I’ll teach you when I come back :) _

He smiles to himself, thumbing the last text and picturing Bilbo moving about Thorin’s kitchen as he tries to teach him how to cook. _something to look forward to_ , he replies.

Thorin sets the phone on the counter next to his diary and goes back to the sticky with Dis’ instructions, then he puts the casserole in the oven and hopes for the best as he pours himself a glass of wine. He’s about to pick up the diary and start jotting things down when the phone buzzes again.

_ How have you been? _

When it comes down to it, Thorin has no idea how he’s been, which is why he decided to make this a Maudlin Night With Diary and Feelings, so he stares at the phone for a second before replying with the one thing that he knows.

_i had a dream about my brother_ , he types, and hits ‘send’ before giving himself the chance to overthink the text. His therapist is always telling him that honesty is an important factor in all relationships, so he’s trying to be more open, even when he just wants to shy away from human interaction and deflect as much as possible.

_ Do you want to talk about it? Should I call you? _

_ no it’s fine. I have my diary _

_ Are you sure you don’t want me to call? _

_i’m okay, go back to your dinner_ , he types out, cursing himself for bringing up the dream and wishing he would learn to stop listening to everything Elrond has to say. He should know by now that Bilbo’s fretting tendencies don’t die down simply because they’re not in the same city, and Thorin doesn’t need fretting, not right now. _Confrontation is stupid and feelings are useless_ , he thinks before grabbing a pen with more strength than necessary and opening the diary to a blank page.

_why is it always the goddamned beach_ , he writes.

He puts the pen down, picks it up again, skips a couple of lines. _i’m angry that i’m angry at what frerin said because frerin is right_ , he starts again. _i’m angry that i’m angry because anger is a self-destructive feeling._

He’s parroting Elrond’s lessons like a good man who listens to his therapist, and that makes him grimace. _i’m angry that i’m angry at a dream because it means i’m angry at myself and i thought that i was getting better at not being angry._

Thorin stares at the page, considers ripping it out and tossing the evidence of his failure away, but then he decides to keep writing. _i’m angry at myself for wanting things, because i have done nothing to deserve them._ He looks at his phone and turns it off before pouring himself another glass of wine.

_ i’m angry that i don’t deserve them because i really want them. _

*

If grocery shopping with his nephews is a landmine, tea with his sister is another kind of battlefield entirely, made out of tense lulls in conversation and painstakingly crafted sentences. Thorin wonders if they’ll ever go back to the way it was before, when they were able to carry out entire conversations just by shrugging and looking at each other.

It’s already a lot better than it was when he first got back, but all the tentativity still gets on his nerves even as he tries his best not to let it show - walking the tightrope is an art that he’s been relatively quick to master, even if there are times where Dis still manages to take him by surprise.

“You look good,” she says.

She’s looking at him with a firm gentleness that doesn’t carry much awkwardness, tugging at his heart so completely that he has no words for a moment. In the end he simply decides to shrug, “I’m fine.”

She mutes her phone and puts it in her handbag, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t look _fine_ , you look _good_.”

In a perfect world where words aren’t weapons that cut through bone and lodge inside of him like a fastidious reminder of what he is and (more importantly) what he is not, he wouldn’t have any problem with the turn the conversation is taking, with the implied difference between ‘fine’ and ‘good,’ but unfortunately this is not that ideal world.

Thorin squirms in his seat, looking out the windowpane. It started drizzling while he was waiting for Dis, and instead of dying down, the rain’s getting stronger. He spends a few idle seconds tracing the wet patterns with his eyes, trying to shape his thoughts in a way that won’t make them sound like he’s spitting out chewed up glass.

“I’m sorry,” Dis says first, voice low as she stares into her cup of tea. Thorin’s head snaps back as he looks at her. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was pushing you.”

She’s tentative again, in a way that almost makes him grimace. “You don’t have to apologise. You said nothing wrong.”

There’s a terse silence as they both sip their drinks. It’s his move now, and whoever said that love is a battlefield was most certainly an only child. _If love is a battlefield then siblings are a full-fledged nuclear war_ , he thinks. But he’s good at war - or rather he used to, but he still has that spark inside of him that is always whispering him to move forward, so he chews up his thoughts and tries to let the shards out as best he can.

“I’ve been feeling… changed.” _Words are not enough_ , he thinks as he stares at his sister, hands fluttering around him vaguely.

Dis looks at him, biting her lip. “Changed good?”

“I don’t know. Different?”

“Different is good,” she says, smiling. “You do look different. You look like you’re getting better.”

“I don’t feel like I’m getting better, I just feel different, and I don’t even know why.”

“It’s okay,” she says, smiling like she knows something Thorin doesn’t. “You have time to figure it out.”

Thorin wants to ask her _what_ , exactly, he’s supposed to figure out, but the buzzing of his phone interrupts him. The only person who ever texts him at random times of day is Bilbo, so he unlocks the screen and pulls up the chat app to a picture of a giant ice sculpture portraying a swan, and the caption _??????????_

He smiles to himself, locking the screen again. When he looks up, his sister is chuckling into her tea.

Thorin ignores her and the blush that’s slowly but surely colouring his cheeks and takes another sip of his coffee.  

*

The last time someone lies to him - the last time he knows about, the last time it really matters - he’s twenty-four years old.

He’s been in what he thought was a serious, monogamous relationship with a man for about a year before finding out the guy has a wife and kids. The best part about this is he finds out only because the wife in question shows up on his doorstep, asking him what he thinks he’s doing with her husband.

She says she found out about Thorin through some very specific and attentive phone-stalking and internet hacking, and shows Thorin pictures and e-mails that were supposed to be private and intimate but now only look crass and shocking and have the power to make him feel disgusted with himself.

She has a picture of their kids, too, and Thorin thumbs it distractedly, murmuring, "He said he loved me."

"Love doesn't exist", she scoffs before leaving him alone with himself and the truth.

Dwalin finds him folded on the couch two hours later, lights out and television stuck on a cooking show, and sits next to him without saying a word.

The last time someone lies to him he’s twenty-four, jagged around the edges and disillusioned with love, and life, and the things that are supposed to matter, so he believes the lie, and lets it consume all the parts of him that are soft, and vulnerable, and bright.  

*

_ Is it socially acceptable to strangle your best friend? _

Thorin stares at the phone, then at the digital clock that signals 3:47 a.m., and sighs. After dinner with Dwalin the other had lent him a book and Thorin had promised himself he was going to read only a few chapters, but ‘a few chapters’ turned into 300 pages and five hours sprawled on the couch. He rubs his eyes, pulling up the chat app and typing out his reply.

_ depends on the circumstances. what did he do _

_ Well apparently he’s DOING some guy named John (the irony) that won’t stop screaming ‘yes daddy’ so there’s that. _

Thorin laughs and sets his book face down on the couch, trying to come up with something clever, when the phone buzzes again.

_ Everyone’s getting laid around here but me, outstanding. _

The laughter dies in his throat as he stares at the text, all too aware of the shape of his phone and how heavy it suddenly feels in his hand. He barely has time to panic before the ringtone makes him jump, too loud in the quiet of his flat.

There’s a split-second where his finger hovers over the _Reject Call_ icon, but then he thinks better of it. If they have to argue maybe it’s better over the phone, where Thorin can always end the call at will. _Like a coward_ , he thinks, but then shrugs the thought away and answers the phone.

“Hey,” he says.

“I’m so sorry,” Bilbo starts in a rush, “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just tipsy and cranky and I miss you, I swear, I’m so terribly sorry.”

He relaxes the tense fist of his left hand and rubs the sweaty palm on his trousers. “It’s okay,” he says.  

“No, it’s not. I’m sorry.”

“Bilbo, honestly. It’s fine.” _It’s fine_ , Thorin repeats to himself. Theoretically, he knows there’s a difference between offhand comments and things one really means, and he knows in this case Bilbo didn’t mean it, but it stings all the same, even if he decides to ignore it in order to focus on the sound of Bilbo’s voice. They haven’t spoken in a couple of days, but somehow it feels like months.

“Alright… I’m sorry I bothered you. With a call, I mean,” Bilbo says, and then there’s a loud thud, some rustling and muffled cursing that Thorin is pretty sure signifies the other is more tipsy than he’d let on. “Sorry, dropped the phone.”

“You didn’t bother me, I wasn’t asleep.” He pauses, worrying his bottom lip. _Say it_ , he tells himself. _Just bloody say it already_. “I miss you too,” he blurts out. _There. It wasn’t that hard, was it?_ He clears his throat, listening to the hitch in Bilbo’s breath.

“You do?” he sounds so pleased that Thorin can’t help but smile, the tension slowly replaced by something warmer.  

“Mh. Texting is fine but…”

“But you’d rather be here?” he asks softly, knowing exactly what Thorin is not letting himself say.

“Yes.”

Bilbo sighs, and there’s more background rustling. “I really wish you were here, too. It truly is a beautiful resort.”

“Except for the swans.”

“Seriously,” Bilbo laughs, “Who even needs that many swans?”

Thorin smiles, thumbing the seam of his sweatpants and enjoying the easy flow of the conversation as the awkwardness ebbs away. It’s relaxed, and he distractedly thinks that it could be the perfect setting for more - Bilbo already in bed while he’s sprawled on the couch, their chatting comfortable and almost half-hushed. It would only take a word to make it something else. Thorin knows Bilbo would never ask anything of him, especially not after his gaffe, but the thought won’t stop worming its way through Thorin’s head, even though he’s not sure he knows what to do with the knowledge that he has the power to turn the situation around.

“What are you doing?” Bilbo asks, and it’s almost too perfect to be true. _I could say it now_ , Thorin thinks. _I could try_.

  
He shakes his head, feeling daft. “I was reading a book that Dwalin brought me. You? Still listening to Bofur?”

Bilbo snorts, “Yes, God help us all.”

Thorin gets the bottle of water from the coffee table and takes a swig, trying to work up the courage to steer the conversation where he wants to. _How do I do this?_ , he thinks. _Maybe I should be drinking wine instead of water_. He takes another swig, clearing his throat.

“Is everything alright?” Bilbo asks again, a trace of worry in his voice.

_Just say it_ , he pushes himself. _It can’t be harder than admitting you miss him_. “If I--- if I were there with you I’d…” he trails off, staring at the wall in front of him. _I’d what, he thinks, I’d get scared and hide in the bathroom again? Because that’s something I’m good at._

It’s as if someone has flipped a switch though, with the way a different kind of restless energy is flowing through him as Bilbo’s voice drops lower, soft and inviting as he says “You’d what?,” waiting for him to go on.

He has no idea. _I literally started this_ , he thinks as he rakes a hand through his hair, thinking of what to say next.

“Would you kiss me?” Says Bilbo again, softer still, “Lie in bed with me and kiss me? Would you do that?”

Thorin nods before remembering Bilbo can't see him. “Yes,” he tries again, marveling at how raspy is voice is already, just from the mental image and the way his body remembers how Bilbo felt pressed against him, warm, ready, and safe.

“You made a noise when I pulled your hair,” Bilbo says again, and Thorin closes his eyes, lazily rubbing the heel of his hand over the outline of his dick, thankful for the way it stiffens as he keeps the motion steady, Bilbo’s voice in his ear. “Would you make that noise again?”

“Yes,” he says, biting his lip and letting his hand wander into the waistband of his sweatpants. He strokes himself slowly, eyes closed so he can focus on the rhythm of Bilbo’s breath. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Mh… wishing it was your hand…”

Thorin squeezes himself, resting his head against the back of the couch and stretching his legs to give himself more room. “I want to suck you off,” he says, startling himself into opening his eyes. _Did I say that?_

Bilbo lets out a strangled moan that makes Thorin forget about everything that’s not the thought of him kneeling between the other’s legs, Bilbo’s dick in his mouth. He works himself a little faster, closing his eyes again.

“I'm so hard for you,” Thorin says, swallowing around the dryness in his throat. “You have no idea how much I want to touch you.”

He says it with a certainty that makes his head spin, fingers thumbing the head of his dick to spread the wetness, “When you come home, I want to-” he drops the sentence, drunk on the way Bilbo moans, on the way his breath keeps hitching. Thorin’s close, and it’s too soon, but he doesn’t even care, he just wants everything at once, and then more.

“I want that too, I--- God, Thorin, are you--- will you come for me?”

Like on command, he lifts his hips off the couch, coming with a strangled gasp, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling.

There's a moment of stunned silence on the other end before Bilbo asks, “Did you just…”

“I--- yes.”

Thorin’s still dazedly staring at the ceiling as Bilbo swears, his voice broken and dripping with arousal, “Fuck, Thorin, bloody fucking _fuck_ that's so---”  he lets out a strangled gasp, and Thorin presses the phone against his ear as hard as he can, listening to all the different noises Bilbo makes as he slowly comes down from his own orgasm.

When a few more seconds have passed, Thorin realises his hand is still in his pants, loosely curled around his now spent cock. He stares at the come dripping between his fingers and lets out a shaky breath.   

“You there?” Bilbo asks, voice low and post-coitally lazy.

Thorin makes a noncommittal noise, wiping his hand on the sweatpants. “That was nice,” he says, regretting the words as soon as he says them. _Nice doesn’t really cut it_ , he thinks.

Bilbo laughs, “Yes, yes it was quite nice.” A brief pause, then, “Was this okay?”

He takes a deep breath, lets himself feel how aware he is of his own body, the skin almost tingling, and closes his eyes again, “Yes. Yes it was.” He’s on the verge of saying ‘thank you,’ but manages to stop before making an utter fool of himself.

“Listen, I’m coming home tomorrow but I have classes… would you like to do something on Wednesday?”

“We could go for lunch,” he says, picturing the cozy atmosphere of _Ered Luin_ and a quiet date with Bilbo.

“Sounds good,” the other replies, his voice trailing off into a yawn.

Thorin himself is feeling sleepy, so he takes another deep breath and murmurs “Goodnight then,” into the phone.

Bilbo makes a soft noise, “Sweet dreams.”

Thorin ends the call with a smile on his lips, distantly wishing Bilbo were there beside him so he could properly kiss him goodnight.

_Next time_ , he thinks before rising from the couch and moving to bed.

*

On Wednesday he’s running late because of course the one day he actually needs the damn thing, his car won’t cooperate. He sends Bilbo an apology text, and gets ‘ _I’ll be at the bookshop_ ’ in reply. _Of course you will_ , he thinks fondly.

After twenty minutes on the tube he’s basically thrumming with anticipation and he’s almost reached the restaurant, so he’s not too worried when it starts drizzling - he jogs for the last few blocks and ducks into the bookshop across _Ered Luin_ as quickly as possible.

The shop is cluttered - books stacked everywhere, dust particles reflecting against the murky light, the air saturated with the musty yet comforting smell of old, well worn paper. He greets the owner with a nod of his head and ventures deeper into the store, looking for Bilbo. Predictably enough, Thorin finds him in the Fantasy section.

Bilbo is not unlike a vision, leaning against a bookshelf, fingers tracing the spines of every book he has within reach. Thorin watches him navigate around the tables for a while, and tries not to think of himself as a creepy stalker even as he traces Bilbo’s steps and lets his gaze wander over the books the other has just finished touching.

Thorin follows him around a while longer, enjoying the sight of Bilbo in his own element, smiling at the way he simply stacks book upon book in his hands and tours the bookstore before circling back to where Thorin is standing, close a particularly musty section.

“Enjoying the view?” He smiles that cheeky little smile of his that drew Thorin to him in the first place, and Thorin lifts his hand as though in a trance, lets his fingers run along the length of Bilbo’s nose, his cheekbone. Bilbo leans into the touch, humming quietly. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. I missed you,” he says. This time the words roll off his tongue easily, making Bilbo smile.

“I missed you too.” He leans up to press a kiss against the corner of Thorin’s mouth, Thorin’s arms coming up to circle Bilbo’s shoulders.

They stay like that for a while, ignoring the curious glances of the other customers, neither of them feeling the need to hurry up.

*

As the day drags on, lunch turns into an afternoon walk in the park, which turns into tea at a secluded coffee shop that Bilbo found a few months back, which turns into Thorin inviting Bilbo over for dinner, the two of them buying pizza on the way to Thorin’s flat and eating it slice after greasy slice while they’re half-tangled on the couch watching old Hollywood movies.

They’re halfway through _Singin’ in the Rain_ when Bilbo pauses the movie and turns towards him, snuggling closer. “I thought about what you said,” he starts, a bit uncertain.  

“Mh?” He buries his hand in Bilbo’s hair to play with the curls, and kisses the other’s brow. “What did I say?”

“The dream. About your brother.”

Thorin freezes, removing his hand from Bilbo’s hair as if he’s burnt himself. Before he can get too far, though, Bilbo grabs it and laces their fingers together. “It’s alright,” he says, leaning on him more heavily. “I want to tell you a story, if you’ll let me,” he says again.

“Alright,” he tries, letting his hand wander back through Bilbo’s curls once again. _Be open_ , he thinks. _Share_.

“There’s an orphan girl who’s so poor she only owns the clothes she’s wearing, and some stale bread.”

Thorin stares at him, unconvinced, but doesn’t say a word. Bilbo usually tends to have a point, so he’s willing to see where this is going.

“She’s traveling through the woods when a man tells her he’s hungry, and if she can feed him. The girl gives him her bread, and then moves on. She meets a child, and he says he’s freezing, so she gives him her cloak - and there’s another child, a bit further on, and he’s freezing too, so there goes the girl’s jacket, and then someone asks her for her frock and she gives that too.”

Thorin nods and lets Bilbo take his hand so he can trace the veins with his fingertips.

“Then, when the night comes, she meets another child who asks for her shirt, and she thinks it’s alright to give it because it’s dark anyway and no one can see her. Some versions of the story say that money starts raining down from the sky at this point, because the girl was so pious that God took pity on her and decided to reward her.”

Bilbo turns his head and places a kiss on the curve of Thorin’s shoulder before resuming his tale.

“There’s another version of the story in which she gives her hair to a poor man who thinks it’s pretty, and then she gives her feet to some crippled guy, and then she cuts off her arms for a lady who has none, and--- well.” He frowns, rubbing his thumb along the scar on Thorin’s inner wrist.

“Are you sure this is a fairy tale and not a horror movie?” Thorin says, trying to lighten the mood.

“Lots of fairy tales have been edited to make them sounds less gorey,” Bilbo says, completely serious. “ _Cinderella_. _The Little Mermaid_. Did you know that she commits suicide for the prince? You can’t exactly tell that to a child, now, can you.”

Thorin hums, halting Bilbo’s hand with his own and taking it up to his lips for a kiss before twining their fingers again. “Is there more to your horror story or was that it?”

“She gives her eyes away,” Bilbo says. “There’s a blind man, and she gives him her eyes, and she can’t even cry for the loss of her parents, but she’s happy.”

“She’s happy,” Thorin replies, dubious. He still doesn’t understand what this has to do with his brother, or his dreams, but at this point he’s not entirely sure he wants to hear the connection.

“When I was younger, I used to think it was a stupid story, but not so much anymore.” Bilbo turns towards him fully now, and rests his hand on Thorin’s cheek. “You remind me of that girl,” he says. “You know, Thorin, I really think you should try harder.”

When he speaks, his throat is dry and his voice sounds and feels like gravel. “To do what?”

“To stop trying so hard.”

It’s like a slap in the face, and then Bilbo leans in and kisses him, slow and thorough to sweeten the blow.  

“You are enough,” he whispers again, and Thorin wants to laugh, or cry, or both, but he simply buries his head in the crook of Bilbo’s neck, not caring that he’s holding onto Bilbo too tightly.

*

He’s at the beach again.

Frerin is splashing around in the water, and he’s lying on the sand, sun warming his face. He knows they’re younger because Frerin still has his _Rage Against the Machine_ tattoo, the one he covered up with a crown when he was twenty, and when Thorin looks down at his hands there are no calluses or scars. He knows they’re a lot younger because Frerin, in his bathing suit, looks lithe and gangly, not quite grown into his body yet.

When he looks up again Frerin is standing beside him, asking him help with building a sandcastle. “I can’t help you,” he says before closing his eyes against the sun and ignoring his brother until Frerin goes away. The sun is warm, and he feels sad and happy at the same time.  

This time, when he opens his eyes, Frerin is looking down at him, eyes pointing at the first bleeding scratch that’s forming on his face. “It should have been you,” he says, “You _know_ that.”

Thorin sits up, shaking his head. “I can’t help you,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Frerin narrows his eyes, moving closer and reaching out to touch him, a cut opening on his forearm--- and Thorin wakes up in his own bed, drenched in sweat and panting like he’s just run a marathon, Frerin’s disappointed face crystal clear in his mind.

_I would give you my eyes if I could_ , he thinks, _but I think I’ll need them from now on_.

He turns on his side, counting his deep breaths as he looks at the moonlight filtering through the blinds. The night is quiet, and after a while he falls back asleep.

That night, he doesn’t dream again.

*

_Are you up??_ , reads the text.

Bilbo knows Thorin still has trouble sleeping sometimes, has kept him company more than once on those nights where he dreams of Frerin and he wakes up feeling like the walls are about to close in, and in turn Thorin knows sometimes Bilbo stays up all night to finish a book, or work on his thesis, so the text is not really a surprise, especially after the wedding.

What _is_ a surprise, however, is Bilbo’s following text, _I need you now_ , a simple sentence that has Thorin grip the phone a bit too hard, throat working and lust unfolding in him, everything still new and exciting, and Thorin feels almost reckless as he wears his boots and grabs his coat, all but running out the door.

Another surprise is reaching Bilbo’s apartment, on the other side of the city, anticipating sex and finding himself surrounded by a mess of screws, wooden planks, tiny wheels and plastic bits instead, Bilbo looking positively distressed.

“I can’t figure out this IKEA bookshelf,” he says. “I’m an adult, I have a degree --- I should be able to figure out how to put together a bookshelf, right?”

Thorin looks at him, uncertain. “Um.”

“No, apparently I can’t. Like,” he waves the instruction manual about, “Why is this shit in Swedish? Where’s the English? What the fuck is a skiftnyckel and where does it go?”

Bilbo looks around his apartment in despair, “I said to myself, I said--- Bilbo you either stop buying books or you buy a new bookshelf, and I thought I could handle it, but every time I put it together I always end up with a handful of screws left.” He frowns, rubbing his temples. “At this point I’m tempted to just chug them down with a pint of stout.”

Despite his best efforts, Thorin laughs. It starts as a quiet snort, and then it just climaxes into a full-body laughter, Bilbo smacking him on the head with the instructions. He should be mad, he thinks, because it’s now 6 and Bilbo basically lured him out of the comforts of his own house with the promise of debauchery, but he’s not mad. He’s just happy. Debauchery or not.

Thorin wraps his arms around Bilbo, kissing the top of his head and stroking his arms until he feels Bilbo relax. “Come on,” he says then, “Let’s do this.”

It takes Thorin twenty minutes to put together the entire bookshelf, Bilbo sitting quietly on the couch and staring at him all the while. Once he’s done, the fruit of his hard work sitting proudly in the middle of Bilbo’s living room, Thorin looks up and smiles, “There you go.”

“You know,” says Bilbo, chin on his hand, “The fact you can work out IKEA furniture in less than half an hour is an incredible turn on for me.”

Thorin grins, cocking his head to the side. “Is it?”

“Mm. Something about you handling tools like you know exactly what to do with them.” He unfolds his legs from under him, distractedly rubbing his thighs, and Thorin’s eyes follow the gesture hungrily, even as he sets the wrench down on the bookshelf.

“Tells me you’ll know what to do with me, mh?” He stretches languidly, like a cat, hand cupping himself through his pants.

Thorin’s mesmerized, still standing next to the bookshelf, watching the way Bilbo looks at him through his lashes, biting his bottom lip as he squeezes his dick. “Thorin,” he moans, unzipping his trousers. “Come _here_ ,” he says, halfway between a plea and a demand.

He’s getting better, these days, at discerning what he wants from what he needs, and he might want to go to Bilbo, put his hands on soft skin and _ruin it_ , but he also knows he has the visceral need to see Bilbo undress himself, fist his dick, and spread himself open for Thorin. He shakes his head no.

Bilbo tilts his head, eyes searching Thorin’s face until he moans, resting his head against the back of the couch. He arches his back, hand stroking his chest, tweaking his nipples through the thin fabric of the shirt, and Thorin knows the sound Bilbo is going to make even before it leaves the other’s lips.

“Do you want it?” He says, tugging his pants down just enough to take hold of his cock, stroking it lazily. “This?” he adds, pausing briefly to lick a wet stripe from his wrist to the top of his fingers, sucking on the pads and moaning around them.

Thorin doesn’t notice he’s sneaked a hand down his pants until Bilbo groans around his fingers, eyes focused on Thorin’s hand as he palms himself roughly through his briefs. He has a sudden moment of not knowing if this is allowed, if this is a line they’re crossing too soon, but then Bilbo releases his hand from his mouth and closes it around his dick again, wet with spit, the noise of it sliding against heated flesh almost obscene in the quiet of the room, and Thorin thinks maybe this time the things he wants and the things he needs are actually the same.

He leans against the bookshelf and watches Bilbo arch his back off the couch, eyes firmly trained on Thorin as he unbuttons his shirt and slides it off his shoulders. He bends his knees, planting his feet on the couch, putting himself on display for Thorin’s avid gaze.

“What do you need me to do,” he asks, voice low, hands resting on his thighs, waiting for Thorin’s input.

Thorin works his throat, trying to stop the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind long enough to come up with something, anything specific, something that’s not ‘ _whatever you want_ ,’ like he wants to say, because that’s not what he _needs_ \---- right now he needs to be _greedy_ and _selfish_ and he needs to _see_ this.

“Touch yourself,” he starts.

Bilbo settles himself more comfortably against the couch, wetting his fingers briefly before reaching for his cock. He’s slow, as he strokes himself, slow and deliberate, cheeks flushed and breath laboured as he fucks his fist, hips canting, and Thorin wants to touch, to spread those thighs wider apart and leave his mark on Bilbo, on the soft flesh of his inner thighs, on the taut skin of his neck.

He tugs himself out of his briefs, clears his throat.

“Use your fingers,” he says.

It’s not very articulate, but Bilbo moans again, hand trembling as it moves from his dick to his mouth, fingers disappearing into his mouth for a while as Thorin closes his eyes, enjoys the wet noises coming out of Bilbo, strokes himself as he knows Bilbo would do, even if his hand is too rough and not quite right, and not Bilbo’s.

“Thorin,” he says, more of a whisper than anything, and when Thorin opens his eyes Bilbo’s damp fingers are circling his hole, his middle finger barely dipping inside, and Thorin feels himself go weak in the knees, leans more heavily against the bookshelf and wishes he’d brought lube with him so Bilbo could do this properly.

“Come here,” breaths out Bilbo, a plea, this time, brittle and beautiful, Bilbo’s eyes unfocused, a flush creeping up his neck, and Thorin goes to him.

“I don’t---- I don’t have anything,” he says, already kneeling between Bilbo’s thighs, fingers digging into the meat of Bilbo’s thighs as he kisses an apology into the curve of his bent knee.

Bilbo buries a hand in Thorin’s hair, tightening his fist as Thorin kisses a damp trail down the inside of his thigh, sucks a bruise into the tender skin where leg meets hip. “The coffee table,” he breathes out, fingers scratching the nape of Thorin’s neck.

He moans, leaning into the touch and closing his eyes, and Bilbo gently tugs his hair, “There’s lube in the coffee table,” he says again, and Thorin reaches blindly behind him, grasping only hair. He feels Bilbo chuckle and move, curl up around him, and Thorin noses his dick, opens his mouth to lick the base of his cock.

Bilbo groans again, falling back against the couch and pressing lube into his hand, pupils blown as Thorin licks a stripe up the length of him, engulfs him in the wet heat of his mouth, Bilbo’s shaking hands back in his hair, and Thorin finds the things he needs and wants have started overlapping, and maybe this is what putting yourself together from scratch feels like.

He wants to say it, then and there, as he’s kneeling on the floor, Bilbo’s legs around his waist as Thorin looks down into his eyes, Bilbo’s hands gripping Thorin’s shoulders as Thorin works his fingers in and out of him, his other hand splayed possessively on Bilbo’s stomach, pinning him down, and Thorin knows it’s too soon for that---- he’s not there yet, not ready to give meaning to the words he wants to say, knows it would be like all the times he says something only because he knows it’s expected of him, so instead he leans down, mouth hot against Bilbo’s ear, and says “I want you to come like this,” drowning Bilbo’s following moan with a kiss.

Thorin knows he’ll get there, and when he’ll say those words to Bilbo, they’ll _mean_ something.

*

When they’re four months into this - four months since Bilbo turned up at his apartment with takeout and a smile, a month since Thorin reached out to him as Bilbo sat on a bench in Dis’ back patio - Thorin realises that maybe growing up means embracing your past and let it shape you, that maybe regrets should be a cautionary tale, not a path to follow, a way of life.

Maybe it’s okay to want something for yourself, maybe wanting something, _someone_ , doesn’t make you greedy, maybe it just makes you human.

Maybe feeling human means accepting the grief, welcoming it like a warm blanket during winter, take it for what it’s meant to be; a reminder that you exist and are made of flesh, and bones, and sinew, and heart. Maybe grief is not there to deter you from living, maybe living is what makes grief bearable.

Thorin starts noticing that when he says he’s going to be okay, he’s actually meaning it.


End file.
